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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25328083">In Another's Shoes</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/sam_roulette/pseuds/sam_roulette'>sam_roulette</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Magnus Archives (Podcast)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>A Leitner Made Them Do It (The Magnus Archives), Character Study, Crack Treated Seriously, Dubious Morality, Identity Issues, Mutual Pining, Personality Swap</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 04:20:42</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>21,676</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25328083</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/sam_roulette/pseuds/sam_roulette</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>A mysterious Leitner finds its way into the hands of some of the Archival staff and swaps everyone's personalities. An increasingly paranoid Tim, a snarkier Martin, a softer Jon, and... Elias?</p><p>Everyone's looking to fix it, but in the meantime, it's musical chairs for people trying to figure out who's suddenly more likely to commit homicide!</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Elias Bouchard/Peter Lukas, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>43</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>234</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Undertow</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Come find/yell at us on tumblr @sam-roulette :)</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>That morning, the only thing to do was wait at his desk and smile. Elias knew that Peter would be in any second, requesting that his [insert surprisingly lewd insult here] leave him alone for once, or sarcastically saying that <em> yes, he of all people truly can’t even imagine life without Elias</em>, or whatever other empty message he felt like sending this time around. Elias was quite prepared for this scenario, as he had been the other four times it had happened, and was ready to gracefully whip the divorce papers across his desk when Peter gave the proper cue. It wasn’t exactly a game, but there was a winner, and Elias certainly felt like he deserved a trophy for all of the effort he put into the theatrics of it all. </p><p>He flattened his already-pressed collar one more time and shimmied his shoulders a little, readying himself for the image of <em> poor, defeated Peter.</em> He reached for the papers he always kept right<em>--hold on.</em></p><p>They were gone. The fifth iteration of beautiful, legally-binding separation, and the damned papers--the <em> one thing </em> he needed for his next act--weren’t where he usually kept them (the second desk drawer, behind exactly two tabbed separators labeled ‘Archivist’ and ‘Assistants’). He didn’t <em> panic,</em> per se<em>--Elias Bouchard is not a man who panics--</em>but he did rather ungracefully shoot up from his seat to search the room. He had to move quickly. He refused to lose to <em> Peter Lukas.</em></p><p>He surveyed the surface of his desk and the shelves behind it, but this proved quite useless. They were, of course, immaculate and tidy as ever. Despite the considerable number of…  souvenirs… he had come to collect over the years, never had speck of dust touched them and gotten away with it. When he scanned the shelves lining the far wall, though, his eyes landed on something new: A book--Polish, he knew without reading the title--and underneath this newfound read, a thin stack of papers that he immediately recognized. He walked over to the book and tried to slip the papers out from under it without touching the binding, but despite its small size it was surprisingly heavy. Any continued effort on his part would have torn or crumpled the divorce papers, and that <em> certainly </em>would not do.</p><p>He sighed heavily and rolled his eyes, resigning himself to just picking up the damned thing and dealing with the consequences later. He found the book to be far lighter than expected when he actually held it in his hand, and he found his stomach felt a bit queasy when he read the title--<em>Odwrotnie, Lub Nauką Dla Ojców</em>, by F. Antsey. There would definitely be consequences for this.</p><p>Elias started a bit when he heard familiar, heavy footsteps approaching his office door, and the ticking clock on his wall became deeply apparent. He did not <em> run </em> back to his desk, per se<em>--Elias Bouchard is not a man who runs--</em>but gently hurrying was not out of the question. He glanced around his office for somewhere to hide the book, as giving Peter a chance to break today’s charade and ask him questions about it would be thoroughly unacceptable, and decided to slide it under his closet door on the way back to his chair. He had just seated himself and placed the papers back in their intended location when the door to his office flew open. Elias steadied his breath and smirked. <em> Predictable as ever, </em>he thought.</p><p>“Well, if it isn’t my little Half-Hour Gentleman,” Peter announced as he entered the room. Having forgotten the delicious new find that he had slipped under his closet door--and having forgotten, or forgotten to care, that there never was a closet there--Elias crossed his right leg over his left, folded his thin hands neatly on his desk, and replied:</p><p>“Peter, have a seat.”</p><p>
  <b>***</b>
</p><p>Tim was on his, what, second, third hour of mind-numbing Twitter scrolling? He didn’t really care to count the time these days. It was all the same dull cycle of depressing stories and filing away frauds and research that benefitted no one but his asshole boss, all infuriating, all bloody useless. Jon hadn’t given him any urgent follow-up to do and no one bothered to come check to see if he was <em> actually </em> slaving away on his computer, so there was no real reason for him to be concerned with stopping.</p><p>The door just <em> had </em> to pick that moment to creak open.</p><p>He kept his eyes pointedly glued to the screen, trying for blatant refusal to acknowledge whoever just came in.</p><p>He’d expected to hear Melanie’s shoes clacking on the floor, or the sound of Martin’s nervous shuffling as he made his way around the room. Worst case scenario it’d be Jon or Elias’ disappointed voice of varying sincerity, and he’d have to dredge himself up from his seat to give a response. He wasn’t expecting to hear a soft laugh that seemed to collapse infinitely into itself and cause a blooming ache at the back of his head.</p><p>His head snapped up to the direction of the entrance, or rather, the direction of the creak. The door wasn’t supposed to be there, and neither was the thing sticking its disorienting mug out of the frame like a goddamn creepy whack-a-mole.</p><p>“What do you want.” He made to leave his desk, adrenaline readying him to bolt at a moment’s notice, or at least put up a fight and sock the thing in its shit-eating grin.</p><p>“Hmmm. Jumpy. Just thought you might’ve wanted this back.”</p><p>There was a familiar metallic jangle. Tim looked closer at Michael’s creepy excuse for a hand, and, yep. The eldritch manifestation of a migraine had made like an annoying goose and stolen his keys.</p><p>Tim cursed as he groped around his desk for- he didn’t know what, a weapon to brandish or something to throw at it, and his hands closed around the moderately heavy book. He didn’t even think about checking if it was important before hurling it straight at Michael, his eye briefly catching the glint of something already sailing through the air before-</p><p><em> Click</em><em>.</em> GOD. Right in the fucking eye.</p><p>The discordant laughter sounded off again as he covered his smarting face, looking back up to see that the wall was once again empty, and so was the general area where the book could’ve dropped.</p><p>Could’ve been worse, he guessed. One lost book for not being sucked back into the maze of corridors that had him and Martin circling around till their wits’ end, and for being able to get into his flat at night. Now, which book did he lose...?</p><p>Huh, he couldn’t seem to place what it was. He supposed losing it couldn’t be too bad if he didn’t remember what it was he had, then.</p><p>From the advertisement on his Twitter feed, what appeared to be a man thrusting a disturbingly placed key on his pelvis into an overly enthusiastic woman in a lock costume promised “Quality locksmithing: The literal key to your new home and the metaphorical one to her heart... among other things.”</p><p>Tim groaned. Maybe that was enough Twitter for the day.</p><p>
  <b>***</b>
</p><p>Throbbing headache aside, Jon supposed his morning was going better than he had expected. He had actually slept the night before due to<em>--not </em> thanks to--Martin’s practically shoving him out the door at 8 p.m. and making sure he left all remaining work behind. </p><p>After taking his bag off his shoulder and laying his coat over the back of his chair, he looked down at his desk with a pang of confusion and something akin to an aching fear. There were two statement folders on his desk. Not just the one that he had laid out the night before (regarding a new pair of workers at a delivery company), but two. The new folder contained statement number 9770211, regarding Luca Moretti and the absence of glory in war. Jon sat back in his desk chair and rubbed his temples, head throbbing harder than it had before he walked into his office.</p><p>“Of course,” he muttered under his breath. “Of course my plans for a pleasant morning would be soured by this.”</p><p>For all his shortcomings and self-deprecation, one thing Jon could always count on and uphold was his excellent memory, and he <em> knew </em> he hadn’t pulled statement 9770211 to be worked on. He groaned a little as he realized that Elias must have placed the file folder on his desk earlier that morning, expecting him to either not notice the change of plans or be entirely willing to work through two statements in one day. And he wasn’t <em> unwilling </em> to read more statements, per se<em>--quite the opposite,</em> he noted, and the thought left a foul taste in his mouth--but he would have appreciated at least a little warning. The second thing Jon could always count on and uphold was his excellent ability to plan out a schedule and stick to it, but this meant that the list of things he was actually quite terrible at included adapting to change. He pulled his right hand down his face and took a deep breath.</p><p>“Well then,” he mumbled, picking up the newfound file folder. “I suppose an archivist’s work can’t always be exactly as stable as they might want it to be, can it? Let’s have a look, then.”</p><p>He opened the file with a short sigh and was startled by four loose sheets of old paper falling into his lap. He scrambled to try and prevent further damage to the pages, and in doing so dropped the entire file and fell to the floor as Tim opened the door. He gave Jon his practiced morning greeting: </p><p>“Morning, boss. Just your daily reminder that I haven’t quit yet.”</p><p>“Yes, Tim,” Jon grumbled from the floor, shoulders tensing at the sound of Tim’s voice. “Good morning.” He looked up to find that Tim had crossed the length of the room.</p><p>“Shocked you right out of your seat, did I?” Tim asked, and though the question seemed playful enough, something vaguely hostile lingered in its delivery.</p><p><em>“You </em>didn’t,” Jon snapped, “but this statement has already proven itself to be quite the handful.”</p><p>He looked back down at the floor and slowly picked up the sheets that had fallen from their folder. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw that Tim was still standing there, hands somewhat tense at his sides, and was now raising his eyebrows. Jon tilted his head to fully look back up at him, surprised by the fact that Tim hadn’t moved. Maybe this was good, though. Everything around the Institute had been so horrifyingly tense the last few months, maybe it was a good sign Tim hadn’t immediately left the room. Jon relaxed his shoulders and attempted to look more pleasant.</p><p>“What is it, Tim?” he asked.</p><p>“What’re you still doing on the floor, boss?”</p><p>“Working, Tim.” Jon paused and worried his bottom lip a little. “It’s fine. Just get to work.”</p><p>Tim’s eyebrows nearly disappeared into his hairline when he asked, “D’you want me to ask <em> Martin </em> if he’ll make you a cup of tea? I think he’s already got the kettle on.” Jon’s cheeks flushed.</p><p><em>“No,</em> Tim,” he snapped, “I don’t need--” but Tim was already out the door. Jon shook his head and shrugged it off, looking back down at the pages in his hand.</p><p>The four thinner sheets seemed to be much older than statement 9770211--at least a century older, perhaps, judging by the quality of the ink and the paper’s texture. Upon actually reading the text, Jon noticed it was Polish. </p><p><em> That’s odd, </em> he thought to himself. <em> What would a Polish text be doing in a file for a statement set in Italy? Let alone one so old? </em></p><p>After a moment, he realigned the Polish text with the rest of the pages from the file folder and pulled himself up to sit back in his chair. He started rubbing his temples again and groaned. “I can’t even pronounce Polish words, let alone translate a text.”</p><p>“What’s this about Polish?” Martin asked from the doorway, poking his head in and startling Jon out of his short spiral. Jon’s eyes landed on the delicate pink teacup and saucer held gingerly in Martin’s hands and he made a mental note to kill Tim later. </p><p>“It’s nothing, Martin,” Jon responded. When Martin still hadn’t moved after a number of seconds, he continued, “Are you going to come in, or...?” </p><p>Martin just tilted his head, his mouth opening and closing once before his entire facial expression settled on “confused.” Jon sighed, crossing his arms and raising one eyebrow.</p><p>“Didn’t Tim put you up to… whatever that is?” he asked, gesturing at the teacup. <em> Christ, does it have hearts on it? </em></p><p>“Oh!” Martin laughed out. “Right, yes,” he said, moving toward the desk. “I mean, I was going to bring you a cup anyway, but--oh, where would you like it?”</p><p>“Just there is fine,” Jon pointed at the far corner of his desk. Martin paused his ramblings to set the cup down. It really was quite lovely, despite how blatantly obvious its mocking intent was.</p><p>“Right, there you are,” Martin continued. “A-anyway, as I was saying, I was already brewing a cup for you, so it’s no trouble. Tim, uh,” he paused, running a hand through his hair, and huffed out another laugh. Jon felt his breath catch at the music of it. “Tim chose the cup, though.”</p><p>Jon pursed his lips. “Yes, well. I suppose it has its charm.” He looked back at Martin for a moment and chewed at the inside of his cheek. “Actually, if you have a moment...” he trailed off.</p><p>“Mhm?”</p><p>“You’re fluent in Polish, yes?” Martin’s eyes widened slightly at the question and he ran his hand through his hair again.</p><p>“O-oh, I mean, I wouldn’t call myself fluent, but...” he paused when he caught Jon’s quirked eyebrow, and his hand dropped to his side. He looked bashful, and Jon couldn’t help but smile a little. “Yeah, more-or-less.”</p><p>“Spoken <em> and </em> written?”</p><p>“Jon, what do you think fluent means?” </p><p>“Well, Martin, that would depend on the language, the community of speakers, the history of the area-” Jon caught himself rambling and coughed. <em> Damn it all, of course he meant both. </em> “I’m assuming that’s a yes.”</p><p><em>“Yes,</em> Jon.”</p><p>“Right,” Jon cleared his throat. “Good.” He picked up the file for statement 9770211 and held it out. “This statement needs to be recorded and its accompanying Polish text translated.”</p><p>Martin took the folder gently from Jon’s hands and flipped it open, scanning its contents. Jon smirked at the poorly-hidden confusion that fell across Martin’s facial features as he flipped back and forth between the statement and the Polish text. <em> Curiosity isn’t a bad look on hi</em>m<em>,</em> he thought, and felt the tips of his ears get warmer.</p><p>“Oookay,” Martin snapped the folder closed and winced at the sharp sound. “Right. Sure. Right away.”</p><p>“Thank you, Martin,” Jon said with a soft smile, “and thank you for the tea.” </p><p>Martin turned a deep pink<em>--also not a bad look on him</em><em>,</em> Jon mused, his ears growing warmer yet <em> -- </em>and stuttered out a quiet “of course” before nearly repeating Jon’s mistake of dropping the folder on the floor.</p><p>“So, um,” Martin started, staring at his feet. “Is there anything else you need from me?”</p><p>“No, no, that will be all.” </p><p>“Right.” Martin turned on his heel and left the room in a fashion that, Jon realized, looked rather like fleeing. After a beat, he realized he was still smiling and reached up to touch his ears, which had cooled significantly, but were still far more flushed than they had any right to be. He stretched his arms above his head and relished in the cracking noise that ran down his spine. Despite the momentary relief to his aching back, his headache had yet to subside. </p><p>“Right,” he said, “I still have that other statement to record. About <em>delivery men.</em> Good lord, what is it with fear and mail?”</p><p>He moved to sit back in his desk chair, picking up the teacup as he did so. The warmth on his palms was quite comforting, he found. If the cup hadn’t been filled nearly to the brim with scalding tea, he would have been tempted to hold it to the back of his neck to try and soothe the muscles there. Instead, he found himself staring at his reflection in the honey-colored liquid. He looked… softer than he had expected. His features still looked forcibly sharpened, but the expression that settled across them seemed almost… comfortable. </p><p><em> No,</em> Jon thought, <em> More than that, I look like I’m-  </em></p><p>He interrupted his thoughts with the much-too-loud clink of the teacup returning to its saucer. He shook his head and opened the folder for statement 9961505, rather obsessively smoothing the pages down to steel his nerves. <em> I have work to do,</em> he thought, reaching for the tape recorder he religiously stored in his top desk drawer<em>--wait. </em> He removed his hand from the drawer and tried again, pressing his fingers along all sides and into every corner. <em> Shit. </em> He pulled the entire drawer out and, despite not seeing the tape recorder<em>--his </em> tape recorder--in it, flipped it upside down and shook it. <em> Oh god damn this. </em></p><p>Jon stood from his chair and started methodically searching every drawer in his desk--opened it, felt around with his hands, took the drawer out, flipped it upside down--with no results. He checked his coat pockets<em>--nothing--</em>and every pocket in his shoulder bag<em>--absolutely nothing. </em>He jogged across his office to the large metal shelving unit, upon which sat boxes of old, and generally voided, statements. Upon noticing that the recorder was neither on any of the shelves or on top of any of the boxes, he picked up the lowest box on the left, removed its cardboard lid, and dumped it onto the floor just as Martin opened the door. Jon, having realized how utterly ridiculous the state of his office now was, froze.</p><p>Jon was surprised when Martin just came into his office again after two quick, light knocks. He had never thought much of it before, but on most days, Martin gave one or two light knocks--“to avoid startling anyone,” he had said once--followed by a rather heavy couple of knocks to actually make himself known before gently asking if now was “a good time.” It was rare for him to break this little ritual<em>--their little ritual?</em> Jon found himself wondering, before lightly smacking his cheeks to bring himself back to reality--and he had certainly never entered before Jon finished grumbling out some version of “Fine<em>—sure, yes, of course, please—</em>come in, Martin.” </p><p><em> Wait, how long has it been since I asked for that translation? </em> he thought. <em> Surely Martin didn’t record the statement that quickly.</em> He looked at the clock above his desk to attempt to maintain some semblance of sanity before remembering that he hadn’t checked the time when Martin first left his office.</p><p>Jon rubbed his eyes in an attempt to avoid considering exactly why he could describe Martin’s knocks, of all things, and when he removed his hands from his face he found that Martin had crossed the room and sat lithely on the corner of his desk, one ankle crossed over the other. He wore an unfamiliar smile<em>--but not an entirely unpleasant one,</em> Jon noted--and seemed to be eyeing the even more unfamiliar redness creeping up the back of Jon’s neck. </p><p>“Can-” Jon rasped. He paused and cleared his throat. “Can I help you with anything?”</p><p>“Jon, you asked me to help you, remember?” Martin responded, the corners of his mouth twitching as he rather obviously held in a little laugh. He set a couple of familiar pages down on Jon’s desk and gave them a quick pat. “Said you needed help <em> reading.</em>”</p><p>The redness creeped ever so slightly upward, feeling not unlike an affliction. Jon wondered whether he should take his temperature when he got back to his flat. Yes, that was certainly the problem. He definitely was not embarrassed, and he <em> definitely </em>was not going to stutter again.</p><p>“O-oh right,” <em>Damn it all to Hell.</em> He cleared his throat and walked back to his desk. Making a point to avoid eye contact, he picked up the new English pages, written in Martin’s gentle script, and started thumbing through them. The hand that wasn’t on the papers anxiously twirled one of the bits of hair that had come loose from the--admittedly rather sloppy--bun he had tied at the base of his neck earlier that day. He recognized the words on the page<em>--of course he did, they had been translated into his native language--</em>but they were borderline incomprehensible to him. They didn’t seem to match the tone of the statement file he had found them in, and it was quite difficult to lace the paragraphs into a coherent narrative with Martin unabashedly staring at him.</p><p>Once his skin finally cooled and he could swallow normally again, he looked back at Martin out of the corner of his eye. “Just so you know, I can read, Martin, in…” he paused, grasping for the names of <em> literally any </em> of the languages he had studied at university, before giving up with a huff. “In plenty of languages. It is kind of my job. I just figured your legitimate fluency with Polish would be better than my guesswork.” At that, Martin just smirked<em>--when had he started smirking--</em>and Jon’s redness returned.</p><p>“Yes, well,” Martin started, “The next time I need something translated from Greek or Latin, I’ll be sure to put your literacy to work.” After a pause in which he appeared to gauge Jon’s reaction, and during which Jon forcibly had none, he continued, “This passage seems to have been nothing more than a misfile. If you see a book called <em> Odwrotnie, Lub Nauką Dla Ojców,</em> by F. Antsey, could you send it my way? I want to have a little look at it.”</p><p>Jon had never heard Martin speaking Polish before--had only heard him say that he grew up speaking it--and he took a moment to get lost in those sounds as they had come from that mouth. It was only when he realized Martin had been blinking at him for quite some time that he remembered he had been asked a question. He flushed further and cleared his throat.</p><p>“Y-yes, of course. Would you,” he paused, releasing an embarrassed, shaky breath, “Would you mind writing that title down for me, though, or at least the author’s name? We’ve already established my Polish is rubbish, a-and I don’t want to forget it, or something.”</p><p>“Of course,” Martin said, leaning a bit closer to Jon as he reached across Jon’s desk to pick up a pen and a sheet of scrap paper that Jon reliably kept in one corner. <em> Why did it have to be that corner?</em> He definitely did not hear his own breath hitch at Martin’s closeness, nor was he torn between staying put and leaning away. He traced Martin’s hand with his eyes as he wrote--the movement was surprisingly smooth and delicate for such a nervous man. Jon found the warmth underneath his own skin to be almost unbearable at this point, and his thoughts drifted again to the thermometer sitting in his medicine cabinet at home. <em> Yes, I really should check that later. </em> Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted the tape recorder on top of his desk, just above the drawer he usually kept it in. Given the state of his office not ten minutes<em>--Fifteen? Twenty? Seriously, how long had Martin been gone?--</em>after Martin had left, and his desire to not appear <em> entirely </em> unstable and incompetent, he restrained himself from snatching the thing.</p><p>“Is there anything else you need from me, Jon?” Martin asked, head tilted slightly, once he was sitting upright again. He seemed to be eyeing Jon with more scrutiny than he had before, and despite his suspicions that looking away would set the recorder loose again, Jon found himself staring back.</p><p>“No,” he gulped. “No, I don’t think so… Oh, except, have you recorded that statement yet? I hadn’t expected you back so quickly.”</p><p>“Oh, no, not just yet,” Martin said with a gentle smile. “I thought I’d handle this for you first. Didn’t want to keep you waiting around for me.”</p><p>At that, Jon flushed even harder and found himself strangely at a loss for words. Once it became abundantly clear that Jon’s face had lost its primary function, Martin stood from Jon’s desk and straightened his sweater.</p><p>“Well then, I’ll head to the library,” Martin said. After a pause, he tilted his head again. “And Jon?”</p><p>
  <em> Please, I really need this exchange to be over before it gets any worse.</em>
</p><p>“Yes?”</p><p>“You look lovely with your hair down,” Martin said, smiling. “Do you know that?” He didn’t wait for a response before walking toward the door, which had apparently been left slightly ajar during this whole interaction. Jon very sincerely hoped in that moment that no one had walked by. He felt as though a spotlight had been placed a mere inch from his face, the warmth genuinely painful.</p><p>“O-oh, I…” he worried his right shirt sleeve against its respective wrist, his eyes wider than he would have liked them to be as he stared rather pointedly at one spot on his desk. After a pause, he let out a soft “thank you” and peered up through his glasses just in time to see Martin smiling back at him over his shoulder. He quickly looked away again.</p><p>“You’re welcome,” Martin said. “Now, then, I’ll see if I can get that book, hm?” </p><p>“R-right, yes. Of course,” Jon responded, having entirely forgotten the reason Martin had entered his office in the first place.</p><p>Once Martin was out of his office and had walked a sizable length of the hallway, Jon rushed to close the door and practically fell against it. He slid to the ground and landed with his back against the door and his head between his knees. <em> What in the Hell was that?  </em></p><p>He took a couple of moments to steady his breathing before standing, shaking out his hands<em>--when had they gotten so sweaty--</em>and slapping his cheeks lightly. He was going to get through those translated paragraphs if it killed him, and he definitely was not going to think about Martin reading it out loud in its original Polish. He was not going to think about Martin at all, actually. He had work to do. </p><p>***</p><p>The encounter with the thing calling itself Michael must’ve rattled Tim more than expected, with an odd delay that he attributed to his body winding down after the spike of adrenaline. Getting into the rhythm of work had helped, but he still felt bloody infuriated that something as ridiculous as getting his keys snatched away and spat back out at his face had somehow left a feeling of unease that continued to plague him throughout the day.</p><p>If that was the only thing that had happened. Would happen. He wouldn’t be surprised if he arrived at home to find none of the keys functioning or if Michael had somehow tricked him into yeeting his birth certificate into the void. That would be just his luck.</p><p>His eye still hurt from where the keys had struck him- <em> Like a buttcheek on a stick, mothertrucker! </em></p><p>...that seemed too sour in his mind. Felt vaguely childish and inane. God, he needed some aspirin.</p><p>He started to rise from his seat and was immediately met with a pinching ache at his neck. God, had he forgotten to stretch? No wonder he wasn’t able to shake off the mounting anxiety. </p><p>Well, that and the apparent restlessness that made his unease worsen whenever he tried to distract himself with a glance at social media. </p><p>He considered asking Sims to assign him whatever miscellaneous tasks could be found but quickly decided against it - whatever this sense of urgency meant, it certainly wouldn’t be worth piling up extra work for himself for the next day, and having to hold a conversation with his boss’ disagreeable ass was liable to make him feel <em> worse.</em> </p><p>So he made for the library instead. Maybe do some research on the Circus - what he’d <em> meant </em>to be here in this mess for, and make some headway in that.</p><p>As he swung the door in, Tim caught a brief glance of Martin enthusiastically eyeing the English fiction category of the shelves and felt a twinge of annoyance. Must’ve been <em> nice </em>just happily dawdling about the library’s collection of literature meant for filling his head with fluff while they were caught knee-deep in supernatural stirrings. Although he seemed much too attentive to be merely browsing, so maybe he was doing something more. One way to find out.</p><p><em>“Martin.</em> What are you looking for?” His tone came clipped and betrayed the bit of annoyance, but with the day he was having he wasn’t particularly inclined to care.</p><p>“Mhmm? Oh- there were pages of this one particular book misfiled into a statement. Curious little volume that I half suspect was put there as a practical joke-” and at this his gaze turned inquisitively towards Tim, an implied accusation that Tim met with a <em> wholly innocent </em> dead stare, “-but I would quite like to see the whole thing. Ah, actually, do you think you could tell me if you come across it? It would be nice to have an extra set of eyes to help me look.” </p><p>Tim absorbed exactly nothing of the Polish book title as Martin spoke it to him. It would be easier just agreeing to it and casting it out of his mind, he <em> did </em> come here with something <em> actually </em>meaningful to do, but…</p><p>It made no sense that Martin would be spending work hours looking for a book sandwiched in a statement as a joke, which was admittedly a strange thing to come across, but it certainly didn’t seem like something that worried Martin all that much. And why would he be wasting his time on this when Martin, of all people, was always trying painfully hard to do right by their asshole of a boss? Was Jon aware of him doing this? What could a fiction book be worth to Martin enough that he’d go out of his way to find it? Tim should check which-<em> Oh,</em> right, he’d need the name of the book for that. Which he just let fly off into the wind.</p><p>“Um. I didn’t quite catch that, I. Just got here...” Tim trailed off at his excuse, for lack of a more coherent response.</p><p>“Well, I suppose you might better remember it by its English title? <em> Vice Versa </em>or<em> A Lesson to Fathers, </em>by F. Antsey. From what I can tell, it’s a rather lighthearted tale of a father and son stepping into each other’s shoes. Funny how the pages that ended up in the statement just so happened to be the ones describing the physical transformation, really, I don’t think our prankster much cared about saving the ripe bits of plot to the reader’s own discovery.” </p><p>“Physical transformation? Was the statement-”</p><p>“Oh, no worries, nothing of that sort of substance,” Martin’s lip quirked into a smile, “thought it was rather CN-worthy actually, and I seem to have narrowly avoided ending up with the features of a bouncing baby boy or any of that Freaky Friday nonsense. Didn’t quite manage to Take Me Away so much.”</p><p>“Right...”</p><p>“It’s a reference? To the song-”</p><p><em>“Yes,</em> I <em> get </em> the reference.” Tim dimly registered that Martin looked a bit taken aback by the retort, but he was feeling on edge and Martin’s airy tone wasn’t helping. </p><p>“...Tim? Are you quite alright? Maybe you should take a few breaths, you look like you’ve tired yourself out doing work- or, well, doing what you <em> usually </em>do at your desk.”</p><p>Tim bristled at the comment, but, well. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t spent the morning on a site people mainly used to shout their opinions into the online void when nowhere else would take them. </p><p>“I’m… <em> fine, </em> Martin. Had a visit from old <em> Yaoi hands- </em> ” <em> ah, bloody shit that’s inappropriate- </em>“Michael. I meant Michael. The Distortion. Showed up and stole my keys and I had to throw a book at him to get them back. ‘M not even sure the book was even there to begin with, now that I think about it, so forgive me for being a little tense.”</p><p>That must have captured Martin’s attention in an entirely different way, because immediately his voice held a new urgency. <em>“Michael? </em>He was here? Perhaps that was the book we’re looking for. Well what did it look like?” </p><p>“Look, I really don’t remember-”</p><p>“Come on now, surely you paid attention to it in <em> some </em>regard-”</p><p>“Yes, in the regard that it was heavy enough to throw at a Monster!” Tim felt strangely pinned in the silence that followed as Martin seemed to be intently scanning him for possible leads. That, and the feeling of shame-laced indignity that he was being judged for the way he responded to a thing meant for causing <em> confusion </em> and <em> fear.</em></p><p>It was a weighted few seconds before Martin asked, voice now solemnly soft, “Tim, what do you think Michael wanted from you that he stole the keys and conjured a book for you to throw at him? We do <em> not </em> know what guides the actions of things like him, but you have to admit that it was unusual from the rest of what we’ve seen of him.”</p><p>...Now that it came to Tim’s attention, Martin was probably right to be urgent about it. Michael was a thing of lies and tricks and something as small as stolen keys couldn’t possibly be the extent of what he was trying to do. He’d researched statements about dangerous books before and knew what catastrophic effects they could have. Would they even take effect if he hadn’t read it? He <em> was </em>feeling something off about the whole day and, God, he’d even tried to stifle his own jokes and sneered at his coping mechanisms, the book might be cutting him off from his regular enjoyments in a twisted siren song to get him to tie himself to it.</p><p>Even if they didn’t, if it <em> was </em> one of the books from that horrible library it still didn’t bode well that the Distortion had made off with it. </p><p>But why would <em> Martin </em>be looking for the same book even before learning about the whole deal with Michael? Was it not even the same book? What were the chances of Michael tearing pages from it to insert into an old statement on the same day it’d come to bother Tim with it? If Martin had already read it, could he already be under the thrall of the tome and thus being driven to unearth and spread it? It would explain the strangely out-of-place drive to search for it. </p><p>Tim was pulled out of his train of thought when he felt his hairs stand on end and realised that Martin was staring expectantly at him. </p><p>“It’s, it’s strange, yes. And I don’t know,” <em> he’d find out, though. </em> “I’ll keep my eyes peeled for that book.”</p><p>“Right. Maybe you should have a lie down, Tim, you look like you’ve had your head in a statement. You need to have a <em> rest.”</em></p><p>Now that would be a good place to start searching, actually- find out what exactly the Distortion might want to do from the statements. Nothing Jon could say about him doing extra work while he was at it, anyway, and he needed answers.</p><p>“Yes, of course, sure,” he started to answer, before quickly walking out the door he came in and heading to the archives to do what was for all accounts and purposes the exact opposite of having a rest. There was work to be done. </p><p>
  <b>***</b>
</p><p>Martin had come to the breakroom to make tea in his usual attempt to clear his head. Give himself the space to think. There was a certain ritual to tea making; nudging the dials on the electric kettle to reach an acceptable temperature, doublechecking tea boxes to make sure of optimal temperatures which would tell him in what order to pour, searching for whether the artificial sweetener had been refilled.</p><p>It should have given him a little reprieve. Peace of mind.</p><p>The kettle was being too slow.</p><p>Martin drummed his fingers against the countertop of the breakroom, waiting. The boxes of teas said the same thing as always- 74 to 85C for Tim’s green tea, 95C for Basira and Jon’s black tea, some temperature he didn’t actually care about for Melanie’s instant coffee- so it wouldn’t have done him any favors to check and double check. He was probably also going to have to fix an extra cup for Jon, just because he tended to be the Archives tea waster. Maybe also because he was a little out of it. </p><p>Martin wondered for a moment if maybe he should check himself for fever, after seeing Jon and Tim. Then again, he might have been fine- Martin didn’t really feel any different. Maybe a little more energized than normal, but that was hardly a negative. </p><p>Maybe that was why he was feeling just a touch impatient, nudging the dial on the kettle so that it could boil faster. There wasn’t much that Martin could do while waiting for the device to start screaming, and now that he felt like really digging into something useful for everyone, he wanted to ride this wave of productivity as far as it would take him. </p><p>There was the matter, of course, of what Michael may have wanted with Tim; or if not Tim specifically, possibly the book Martin was looking for. </p><p>For now, Martin had a few odd puzzle pieces that seemed to fit together, with a little more sanding down on the edges- Tim touched a certain book and began to act oddly. Jon touched pages from a misfiled book and began to act oddly, even going as far as turning his office upside down for unspecified reasons that Martin hadn’t wanted to pry into. The book seemed connected to Michael in some way, since Michael had gone off with it during Tim’s encounter. Ergo, because Martin touched pages from an odd misfiled book, it was quite possible that he himself was beginning to act oddly, if whatever was happening couldn’t be chalked up to an illness. </p><p>If he had, it wasn’t anything that couldn’t be explained by a passing mood. Martin was feeling a little more energized and a little more impatient- nothing that couldn’t be explained away as trying to cope with his conversation with Basira earlier and the admitted stress relief the misfiled book represented at first. </p><p>It was definitely something he was going to have to keep an eye on. Thankfully, if nothing else, Martin was extremely good at pointless introspection that usually made him feel absolutely terrible. Which was not something to be chipper about, but, well…</p><p>The kettle began to whine and, as Martin hastened to turn off the heat, he thought that at least it wasn’t odd for him to start making little plans for how to proceed. The steam spiraled off the tea as he thought about his plans to be. He was planning up until the moment he entered the assistant’s room. </p><p>“Tea’s on!” Martin announced cheerfully as he entered the room. He had gotten rather good at balancing everyone’s mugs in his arms, reducing the number of trips- so long as everyone made sure to get everything while it was hot. It helped that he’d already dropped Jon’s tea off to him.</p><p>“Don’t want it,” Melanie lazily waved a hand from where she was leaning against Basira in the corner, which was really Melanie-speak for <em> may I please have my coffee, Martin?  </em></p><p>Martin moved to set Basira’s cup in front of her and handed Melanie her coffee, shifting the mugs until he was holding his in one hand and Tim’s in the other. Basira made absolutely no move to look up from her book. “That’s a lie and you know it,” Martin said, smiling a bit. “Would you mind getting Basira for me, though? I wanted to talk to you two about some things.”</p><p>Melanie rolled her eyes. “She’s right in front of us.”</p><p>“Physically, yes,” Martin nodded, starting toward where Tim was folded in on himself at his desk. “But I <em> would </em>prefer to speak when everyone has the cognitive ability to spare, thank you.” </p><p>“‘Cognitive ability to spare’?” Melanie parroted, somewhat bemused, “Someone’s been spending too much time around the walking thesaurus.” </p><p>“At least I’m spending my time around some form of educational material- unlike <em> some </em>of us,” Martin smiled, a little surprised that it could be so easy to fall into this banter. Maybe everything that had been happening thus far- with the murder accusations and the knowledge fear gods and the like- had been affecting him a little more negatively than he’d thought.</p><p>Which. Hm. That was a normal reaction, Martin reminded himself, to be affected negatively. Best to note that down.</p><p>He gently nudged Tim, setting his tea in front of him. “Tim? How are you holding up?” </p><p>Tim was folded up at his desk, shoulders hunched and eyes scanning the page of a statement rapidly. Tim paused for only a moment, giving Martin a disgruntled glance. He bit out a short, “Thanks. But I’m busy.” before turning back to the statement and not even touching the tea. </p><p>Martin frowned. He supposed that answered his question, then. “I see- well, would you like to pause for a moment? I was thinking-”</p><p>“I don’t have time for the tea party right now, Martin,” Tim said dismissively, all but consumed in the statement. Martin glanced over his shoulder and saw that it had something to do with a spiral made of ashes. He… also supposed that this was fine. Tim might have already been doing what Martin would have wanted to ask him to do. “Again. Thank you for the tea.”</p><p>“You’re welcome, as always,” Martin truly did not understand what the hell Tim’s problem was today. But the prospect of cursed books was certainly becoming more and more attractive by the second. A little cross, Martin added, “... You might want to try and sit up straight, at least. You’ll get a bad back like that.” </p><p>“Sure, fine.” Tim said, but at least he was straightening up into a position that Martin was a little more familiar with seeing Tim in. </p><p>Since it seemed that Tim was still in his mood, Martin left him to it, crossing the room to pull his rolly chair up and sit with the girls. Melanie had apparently finally succeeded in breaking Basira’s little trance by poking the woman’s shoulder until Basira had her hand in a vice grip. This was nothing unusual for them. At least Martin could take solace in the fact that neither of them were acting off. </p><p>“Said you wanted to talk about something?” Basira asked.</p><p>“Well, less talk and more plan,” Martin said, taking a moment to think of how to phrase this next bit. Melanie and Basira were smart- they would likely figure out sooner or later that something was off with Tim and Jon. It’d be rather a waste of time to explain what they’d be able to see pretty clearly on their own, especially when Martin himself wasn’t entirely sure if it was something ominous or not. “I was thinking about what you told me earlier, after I read that statement? And you were right.”</p><p>Basira set <em> Introduction to Alchemy </em>to the side for a moment, eyebrow raising. “About which bit? You’ll have to be a bit more specific.”</p><p>“I know, I just mean- you were right about all of it?” Martin said, twining his fingers together and setting them in his lap. “I don’t think I’ve been taking the prospect of legitimate escape from the Archives as seriously as I should have been, and it wasn’t fair to you to be so dismissive. What you’re doing is genuinely really valuable, and I think we may be able to make more of a use of it.” </p><p>“You sound like you have a plan,” Basira said, measured.</p><p>“I wouldn’t call it a plan? More of a lead, really,” Martin said, smiling. It was encouraging- being listened to. “See, with the Circus and everything happening, I reckon that we may need a kind of, two birds one stone solution- something that can be used for both the Unknowing and, well…” He gestured to Basira, who caught on to what he meant. “So I was thinking- what do you two know about the Distortion?”</p><p>“Just secondhand stuff,” Melanie said, “There’s some tall blonde monster thing that deals in driving people batshit- what’s that have to do with the Circus, though?”</p><p>“I was just thinking, that since the Circus has to do with things not being like they seem, the Distortion or whatever else it’s connected to might deal with that?” Martin hypothesized, “Lord knows that the time Tim and I had- had encountered it, it had made things hard to… know, in its hallways. If the Circus is everything not seeming right, then the Distortion might have a hand in that- distorting information…”</p><p>“... and information just so happens to be what this Institute deals with,” Basira finished.</p><p>“So if we can figure out a way to- what, use the Distortion? Is that what we’re getting at here?” Melanie asked, eyes gleaming. </p><p>“If not use, then- then at least we can gather information on it.” Martin said, sitting up a little straighter. “If we can better understand the Distortion, we might be able to find a jumping off point to understand the Circus, even if it’s a different fear!”</p><p>“It’s not a lot to go off of, but a lead’s a lead,” Basira said, nodding approvingly. “Do you have anywhere to start?”</p><p>“I’ve been looking into a book called <em> Vice Versa, </em>which had pages misfiled with the statement earlier- it had some really odd passages within having to do with distortion,” Which wasn’t strictly a lie, of course- literature was a beautiful thing with many interpretations, and Martin just so happened to interpret the book to be something they need to find, “Mostly the distortion of perceptions from being in another’s body. I was going to keep in contact with the library to keep an eye out for it. It’s got a Polish name too, since the pages I read were in Polish-”</p><p>“Go ahead and write it down.” Basira said, “We can keep a look out. We’ll need to look for more statements having to do with the distortion- I can do that.”</p><p>“I’ll help you, so you can keep on with your original studies,” Martin said, “And then I can ask Jon if he can dig up any statements relating to it. Oh! And maybe use Tim’s former connections with research to look for any accounts or artifacts that may have to do with it!” </p><p>Basira asked, “And you’re sure Tim is in the right headspace to put his usual antics to work?”</p><p>Martin paused for a moment, glancing over at Tim. He was wholly absorbed in the statement in a way Martin had never really… seen from Tim, before. “... or if not Tim, maybe Jon? He had worked in research as well-”</p><p>“And you think that Jon’s going to agree to this easily?” Melanie huffed a bit, leaning back. “I’m surprised the prick’s even in these days- at this point, I may as well help out with the research department with Tim.”</p><p>“I was just about to say the same thing,” Martin’s smile twitched a bit as he tapped his fingers on the inside of his other wrist, “About you helping Tim with research, or Jon- who, I might add, is probably trying <em> just </em>as hard as us, you know.”</p><p>“All I’m saying is, he could be around a bit more to actually do his archiving thing,” Melanie huffed a bit, taking a deep drag out of her coffee. “The least he can do is not push any more work onto us-”</p><p>“We’re getting off track,” Basira said somewhat impatiently, “So, the current plan is this: Martin and I will be looking for distortion statements that haven’t been recorded yet, while Melanie and Tim- or Jon, if he can bother to sit still- search through previous statements and recordings, as well as any followup they can get their hands on. Martin’s contacts in the library will keep a look out for the book <em> Vice Versa, </em>and we’ll look out for any mention of the book in any statements. If all goes to plan, the Distortion statements somehow tie into the Circus and how to stop it. That about it?”</p><p>“I honestly think we should look a bit more into that book,” Martin said, “since it seems to be the biggest lead.”</p><p>“Most suspicious, more like,” Melanie retorted.</p><p>“If we look into the book, we just need to be careful not to read any print copies of the full text,” Basira said, “Though, digital should probably be fine.” Melanie nodded in assent.</p><p>“Yes! Sounds like a plan,” Martin clapped his hands, smiling widely, “I think we may have this! We just need to get Jon on board, and-”</p><p>“On board with what?” </p><p>Martin paused, craning his neck behind him to see Jon at the doorway to the room, holding his mug in his hands. Jon hovered somewhat awkwardly in the doorway, glancing at where Basira, Martin, and Melanie had congregated in a loose circle. Most surprisingly, he had actually taken his hair down, and Martin blinked a bit, suddenly a little distracted by the coil of black locks that cascaded over Jon’s shoulders. </p><p>He shook himself out of his reverie quickly, because dammit, this was important. He couldn’t let himself be distracted, even if Jon was the prettiest man Martin had ever seen in his life and also the boss he was still crushing on. </p><p>He turned around in his seat, holding onto the back of his chair as he explained, “We were making a plan to research more into the Distortion and Distortion related cases, due to the book from earlier…” </p><p>Martin repeated the plan as Basira had helpfully laid out so plainly before, carefully watching Jon’s face for any hint that he might not be keen on the plan. Jon seemed to be carefully considering it, gesturing for Martin to go on. Even with the strange new courage he felt to speak, there was still a hint of bubbling anxiety in his gut- and even as Martin finished, he was already thinking about new ways to spin the plan, just in case Jon had some secret agenda he hadn’t let anyone in on.</p><p>There was a long pause as Martin watched Jon, waiting for his move, but with something on the tip of his tongue to gently refute Jon’s veto.</p><p>Instead Jon said, “Alright.” </p><p>Martin blinked a bit, surprised. “... Alright?”</p><p>Melanie joined in, “Alright what?”</p><p>“Alright, as- as in,” Jon tucked a stray hair behind his ear, and Martin desperately wished for a moment that he could have done that. “You have my full support with this- I think M-Martin has a good point with the lead? And the plan you three have seems solid. So I’ll do whatever you need.”</p><p>“Oh.” Well, that was far easier than Martin was expecting. “Well, thank you! This really helps us out a lot, Jon, you have no idea.” </p><p>Jon, surprise of all surprises, smiled. Just the tiniest bit, so fast and so small that it was easy to miss it. “It’s really fine- you’re very welcome, and it’s fine. I’m sure you know- you know what you’re doing, with this,” There was the warm glow of pride that settled in Martin’s chest. </p><p>“Still- it means a lot.” </p><p>“Right,” Then, Jon shook his head, as if giving himself a little jolt. “I-! Sorry, I had wanted to come out and thank you- for the tea. It was good! It was good tea.” He stood in the doorway for a few seconds more before suddenly turning on his heel. “Just come into my office if you need me, thank you.” And he was downright scurrying away.</p><p>For a few seconds, none of the trio said anything, looking at the doorway where Jon had left. It left a warm, smug feeling in his wake- it was rare for Martin to be praised by Jon in the first place, but this much? This <em> really </em>must have been a good plan! </p><p>“So… that was <em> weird, </em> right?” Melanie asked, squinting at where Jon had been standing. “Like, am I hallucinating or on something, because that was <em> weird </em>.”</p><p>“Was it that weird?” Martin pondered suddenly, resting his fingertips against his chin.</p><p>“Yeah, that was definitely weird,” Basira said, equally as baffled as Melanie. “That was very… not Jon.” </p><p>“Well, on second thought,” Martin said thoughtfully, “he had seemed a little… feverish, earlier.” </p><p>“Feverish, huh.” Basira said. Then, she shook her head. “Let’s just hope he can sleep it off or something. ‘M not sure if I’m up to dealing with much of… that.”</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. On Stillness</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>CW for paranoia, panic attacks, mention of parental neglect</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Tim’s head was still swimming as he picked his way back to his flat (which unlocked properly, much to his blooming relief). The sun had been long gone by the time he stepped off the tube, thanks to a bout of frenzied and increasingly frustrating scanning of spiral statements. It was scanning that he immediately regretted when he finally chanced a look at the clock and realized that it was a couple of hours past the end of the work day.</p><p>His stomach growled and he barely stopped himself from cursing loudly to his empty room. Between Martin’s odd behavior, the encounter with Michael, and repeated exposure to the hogwash that was most of the Spiral statements, the day had disoriented him enough that he was running on complete autopilot. He had completely forgotten that he needed to get dinner on the way back.</p><p>He supposed Monday’s leftovers would have to do. There was a twinge of dismay as he remembered that all he had was chicken paprikash and a few measly ice cream bars. But, honestly, the paprikash was agreeable enough before; and even if the mood the day had put him in made him wish he’d gotten literally anything else, he could enjoy it for one rushed meal.</p><p>Shoveling lukewarm Hungarian food into his mouth while he blasted some meaningless television jabber in the background, as it turned out, was not enjoyable for one rushed meal.  </p><p>It was especially not enjoyable when the dismay twisted into dread in his stomach, turning into nausea where it met the still-digesting food. If whatever Michael and/or his book did to him had had the goal of snuffing out what little comfort he could get in his miserable life, targeting the food he enjoyed was definitely an insidious thing to manifest as.</p><p>He’d have to take note of anything that could be indicative of the events of the day influencing his behavior, then, and what it could be trying to draw him towards. He knew all too well how aspects of the paranormal could lure its victims to them, and how seemingly innocuous a form that bait could take.</p><p>It was probably also in his best interest to actively fight against anything that could be considered supernatural influence. Well, if there was something he had practice in, it was harboring stubborn and burning spite for the things that had led him to his eventual doom and showing it in creative and terrible forms.</p><p>So despite the raging sense of urgency and mounting unease at what every moment he went without knowing what the effects the book could bring, Tim Stoker resolved to <em> not </em> think about it. He was going to sit his ass down on the damn <em> bloody </em> couch and <em> fucking </em> ... “ <em> chill </em>.”</p><p>After a few moments spent listlessly channel surfing, though, this task proved itself to be easier said than done. For reasons other than what Tim had begun to mentally jot down as ‘possible book interference coiling ever tighter around his psyche,’ he found it very, <em> very </em> hard to stay seated.</p><p>His errant thoughts began drifting from the Spiral statements he’d inflicted upon himself like an incompetent builder repeatedly hitting themself in the face with a hammer to everything <em> else </em> he knew about supernatural books. Leitners (that was what Jon had called them, right?) usually either acted as inanimate predators that led the reader to personal loss, death, and a whole host of unpleasantness; or they reached into the readers and <em> changed </em>something in them. Used people to further carry out their effect on the world.</p><p>If Martin had experienced the latter, he wasn’t to be trusted. What had been off about him, again? A sudden enthusiasm for the book itself, sure, but other than that Tim couldn’t put his finger on it.</p><p>Was that really all he had to go on? A sudden interest in literature and a seemingly reasonable concern about something brought about by a monster? No, in the whole interaction what bugged him was just that it… <em> felt </em> off, in the exchange of words and the dizzying drive he felt after.</p><p><em> Innocuous forms </em>, he reminded himself. Tim couldn’t pinpoint what was even bothering him, much less what was causing it, and until he could parse the whole picture he couldn’t leave any possibilities unexplored, no matter how dreadful the reality of it might have been. What was Martin trying to say to him when he’d been given the tea? </p><p>The dread worsened as he realized that he really should’ve been paying more attention to Martin talking to the others. Hopefully he hadn’t pulled them into whatever the book was doing.</p><p>If the feeling of wrongness about Martin was even <em> related </em> to the book. After what had happened...before, that caused things to feel wrong… it was possible that the same thing that happened to Sasha had happened to Martin as well. Not for the first time, he felt his breath hitch. He couldn’t have let that thing get to <em> another </em> one of the people he knew. If he’d just stood by for another few bloody months talking freely with another one of those monsters that had stolen everything about his friends, he could never… he <em> wouldn’t- </em></p><p>His breath was getting uncomfortably shallow and it occurred to him that he could just be having a prolonged anxiety attack. If it was from the thought of another changeling or from Michael and the book, it didn’t matter. The fact that “just” had to be attached to that was a bleeding shame. He’d try breathing exercises, then.</p><p>Breathing exercises were done, and he grounded himself, pressing the nails of one hand into his other palm. Right. Of his options, he could stay on the couch and try to distract himself with more mind-numbing telly and attempt a night’s sleep, or jot down his thoughts so that they could be worked out in a less jumbled fashion.</p><p>Telly had already proven itself distinctly useless at holding his attention. The restlessness would have him tossing and turning for hours. Investigation logging it was, then.</p><p>He dimly recalled trying to enjoy things tonight. Well, that <em> was </em>for his soundness of mind. He grabbed a few of the ice cream bars, too, for some more extra … enjoyment.</p><p>Writing down anything he felt was off about himself, anything that he suspected to be due to the book would help too, yes--there’d be a clear record of any progressions made while he was still investigating. He grabbed a stray piece of paper and started writing, tearing open the wrapper of the ice cream while he was at it.</p><p>He set aside a space for ‘possible book interference,’ then wrote out what immediately came to mind for him: Michael, the Circus, the rest of the people in the archives, and Leitners. It clearly wasn’t enough to form a coherent picture, so he’d have to look into more of both Spiral statements and ones that had to do with the damned Circus, as well as pay more attention to what his colleagues were doing at any given time. And keep his eyes peeled for books, of course.</p><p>He was glad to write down that the ice cream was indeed enjoyable and wasn’t another log in the ‘book interference’ column. The supernatural hadn’t robbed Tim of the ability to enjoy the taste of some chocolate at the very least, even if it seemed hellbent on robbing him of literally everything else. Biting into the cold even woke him up a bit more! Between that and now having something resembling an itinerary for moving forward, this was going quite well.</p><p>He tossed the used stick aside and stained the paper with chocolate when he next reached down to touch it. <em> Ah. </em></p><p>It would <em> seem </em>that in his distracted haste, instead of holding the ice cream by the stick he’d clamped a hand around the hard coating of frozen chocolate and held it like one would hold a carrot as he took some very quick bites into it.</p><p>…Tim was maybe a <em> little bit </em> more on edge than he had first considered.</p><p>He wasn’t sure whether to swear or sob. A very loud “FUCK” won out, in the end. He’d need something else to let out his nervous energy. The writing clearly wasn’t going to suffice. Pacing and ranting to himself in his empty flat would have done him better.</p><p>Tim looked down at the paper with the chocolate handprint on it. Maybe he could just do this orally. It would certainly be faster. He took out his phone and started making an audio note.</p><p>As he got to listing out what he suspected of his colleagues, though, he paused. Jon had a history of breaching others’ privacy, to put it so very mildly. Depending on what Martin’s relationship with the book was, he could have been on a similar page as Jon in terms of supporting supernatural dread powers. If Jon were to start to suspect Tim, he may find the need to root through his phone, and with that compelling power of his he could very easily expose Tim to the others.</p><p>No, better to find something else to record his findings with.</p><p>His memory supplied him with something he’d kept in his closet of loose junk--he kept telling himself he’d throw it out eventually, but he’d never really had the chance. He opened the closet and began searching.</p><p>After a few minutes, he unearthed something colourful and plastic from the dusty storage place. A children’s toy recorder, with a cable that connected it to a tiny, bright red plastic phone instead of a microphone.</p><p>Tim made a face. It’d been something he and some mates from college had played around with a few times while drunk off their asses. He couldn’t for the life of him recall what he and his friends had said into it, or why they’d thought talking into something so ridiculous was a good idea. <em> Perfect. </em>It was horrid and glaring and wholly embarrassing, even to him, and that meant that it’d be doubly unappealing for Jon to ever interact with, overly-concerned-with-looking-professional academic that he was.</p><p>Setting the kiddie phone recorder down on the table and sighing a bit at how ridiculous it made him feel, he steeled himself and took a deep breath. This was worth it, for a bit of extra security.</p><p>“Right, then, let’s try this again,” he said, and hit record.</p><p>***</p><p>After what was quite possibly the strangest work day he’d had in a long time, Jon opened the door to Georgie’s guest bedroom and was hit rather squarely on the nose by two simultaneous realizations. The first was that he did not remember--and therefore had not even really noticed or catalogued--the train ride home. The second was that his possessions smelled… dusty. </p><p>The more important of the two revelations was almost certainly the former, but in the moment, the surprisingly sharp, gnawing shame of the latter swallowed any and all other concerns. He had work to do--<em> and quite a lot of it, </em>he thought, eyeing the shoulder bag still at his side and grimacing--but honestly, who could get any work done in a place like this?</p><p>Groaning, he removed his thin brown coat and set it and his bag down next to the open doorway. After a sharp breath and with squared shoulders, he cuffed his sleeves, pushed them up above his elbows, and stepped carefully across the paper-littered floor to the windows along the far wall. He reached his left hand out to pull open the first of two sets of brown curtains, but hesitated for a positively dread-filled moment during which he considered exactly how many spiders had likely built their homes behind them. </p><p>He dealt himself a few rushed platitudes--<em> It’s fine, you’ve had plenty of spiders in your home before, Georgie will be home soon and take care of them, God why do you let Georgie deal with this for you instead of just doing it yourself, I mean Christ, Jon, you’re an adult-- </em>before shutting his eyes tightly and whipping the curtains open.</p><p>Once the curtains were open, Jon took several deep breaths and slowly opened one eye. A soft, strange laugh--<em> Is that my laugh? </em>--bordering both relief and hysteria bubbled through his throat.</p><p>“Alright,” he breathed to the window, fogging up the glass, “no spiders. I told you it’d be fine, and it was! Lovely.”</p><p>After yet another round of tightly clamped eyes and quick breathing and platitudes, Jon finally opened the second set of curtains and opened both windows to air out the room. He hadn’t been home in time to fill a room with sweet sunset air in any number of months, and despite himself he took several deep breaths to savor it. A short, unexpected memory washed over him and he turned to lean his back against the wall.</p><p>“How did that line go?” he asked the empty room. “The one that Martin couldn’t stop reciting, that Keats thing?”</p><p>After a beat of silence, Jon answered his own question: “Called him soft names in many a mused rhyme to take into the air my quiet breath.” He found himself smiling softly. “Right. That’s the one.” It’d been about a year ago, but he couldn’t help but remember…</p><p>After a second beat of silence, he cleared his throat and took another deep breath.</p><p>“Right. Cleaning.”</p><p>He righted himself from his position against the wall and clasped his hands together just below his chin, surveying the situation. The most obvious problem was the papers on the floor that desperately needed a good sweeping. However, despite Georgie’s love of antique furniture and strange decorations, her guest room was fairly devoid of surfaces. There was a (dusty) wardrobe, sure, and a (dusty) night stand with a (cluttered) drawer and a (dusty) lower shelf, but if he were completely honest with himself, the level of work Jon brought home with him required a filing system of its own. His own little archive. He eyed the bag in the doorway again. </p><p>“You and your little pocket multiverse,” he scolded, as if the bag were for some reason at fault for his bad habits.</p><p>He thought back to the night before, to Martin scolding him for filling those pockets with even more statements after hours of working… not quite tirelessly--he was always tired--but relentlessly. Martin had seemed genuinely worried about him, but not in the same way that Georgie had worried about his habitual repression when they were dating or that Tim had worried about his safety when they worked together in Research. Martin’s concern had seemed laced with something that at present remained nameless to Jon, but his face flushed nonetheless. </p><p>He thought back to this morning, to Martin bringing him tea, and <em> God, </em> that teacup, and Martin’s cheeks that flushed pink to match it. To that laugh that made Jon’s cheeks match Martin’s cheeks which matched that teacup <em> with the little hearts on it. </em> To that mind brimming with curiosity and that mouth speaking with fluency and those urgent movements screaming with self-preservation. To the… <em> new </em> Martin who essentially <em> called a meeting </em> at the end of the day, reciting his plans to everyone and asking for help and collaborating with all of them. Confidence <em> really </em>looked good on him, even if its source was unclear.</p><p>Jon was sure, standing in Georgie’s guest bedroom with her windows open and his warm cheeks and his thoughts of Martin flowing freely through his mind--and probably through the air as well, God knows what he was accidentally saying out loud--that if he went back to work the next day, he was going to die of embarrassment. </p><p>“Not if,” he corrected, “when. You are a grown man and you are not going to stay home from work to avoid being embarrassed.” He coughed and squared his shoulders again. “You are going to… t-to dust this bedroom and organize your things and get some much needed sleep--entirely of your own volition, of course--and you will feel better in the morning! Yes, that sounds right.” </p><p>After months of scattering his life across Georgie’s dining table and living room, Jon was unwilling to move his things out of her guest room in order to dust and vacuum, so as far as surfaces to line with books and papers went, the bed would have to do. He picked his bedsheets off the floor where he had left them after a pain-filled morning, despite the night before being the first good night’s sleep he’d gotten in months, and smoothed them out in his hands. They really did feel nice, and a pang of guilt ran through him at the realization that Georgie, knowing how poorly he slept, had likely given him the softest bed sheets she owned. <em> I really should take better care of these. </em></p><p>Jon laid the top sheet and duvet neatly over the mattress and arranged the three pillows nicely at the head of the bed. He stood back from the freshly-made bed and felt strangely proud--when was the last time he had put this kind of effort into… anything other than work, really? </p><p>A soft <em> mrr </em>sounded behind him, and he turned to see the Admiral stretching lazily in the doorway. He couldn’t help but smile.</p><p>“There you are.”</p><p>He smiled wider as the Admiral padded over, weaved himself between his legs, and jumped on the bed. The cat meowed again and opened his mouth into a wide yawn. Jon knew from years of exposure to--and months of cohabitation with--the Admiral that this was his cue to give the magnificent little beast some attention.</p><p>“Aren’t you a big, scary man?” he asked, scritching under the cat’s chin and petting the length of his spine. With another yawn--full of <em> very sharp </em> and <em> oh so scary </em>teeth--the Admiral curled into a ball at the foot of the bed and started to fall asleep. Almost instantly, Jon found himself yawning and leaning forward onto the bed, propped up by his elbows. He really had quite a lot to do, but a short nap couldn’t hurt anything, right? After all, his one night of decent sleep wasn’t going to fix months of little-to-no sleep at all. He smiled to himself and pushed himself onto the bed so that he was curled up next to and around the Admiral. </p><p>“Change of plans,” he whispered to the cat. “First, we will sleep. Then, we are going to dust this bedroom and organize our things, and we will feel better in the morning.”</p><p>***</p><p>After Martin shook off the last bits of warmth from Jon being very much intrigued with his plan, looking back on the interaction, it had been… strange. Very strange. </p><p>Martin couldn’t remember a single time before when Jon had gone out of his way to thank him for the daily tea, nor had he ever taken the time to compliment it. Jon had certainly thanked him for the tea offhandedly, but he’d never gone out of his way to do so before. It was also extremely odd that Jon would come out of his office nowadays, unless he were running off somewhere- so to see him come out only to thank Martin for the tea was… weird. Not doing wonders for Martin’s crush, but very strange indeed.</p><p>It was so strange that the girls had begun picking up on it pretty quickly, so as Martin clocked out for the night, he resolved to take the evening to examine himself. He had to make sure he wasn’t acting so obviously strangely. He kept his Android’s notes app open in his pocket for easy access as he boarded the tube, trying to see if he felt compelled to change his after-work routine in any way.</p><p>(A man bumped into his side as they both struggled to board the train. But, the man was quick to apologize to Martin, and Martin nodded to him with a little, “No harm done, just be careful with yourself, yeah?”)</p><p>He didn’t feel compelled to go anywhere special. He got off the tube at his regular station and stopped on his way out at a little kiosk there for hot chocolate. He sometimes did that anyway, so there was nothing amiss there. Something hot and sweet was always a good idea when one was having a time of it.</p><p>(Martin opened his cup when he got it and hummed a bit before flagging down the barista. “Pardon- I asked for extra whip? There’s a love,” Wasn’t like there was anyone else in line to inconvenience with such an innocuous request, after all.)</p><p>He said hello to his neighbor on his way to his flat, because she was a lovely older woman with a few Pomeranians who were the absolute cutest little cotton balls Martin had ever had the pleasure of knowing, and unlocked the door. He hadn’t forgotten any keys, hadn’t forgotten any of his things, and the hot chocolate was still warm in his free hand. </p><p><em>ride home went normally, </em>Martin wrote into the notes app. </p><p>His evening routine was pretty standard- wash up, put on the telly and decide whether or not he wanted to bother cooking before heading to bed. Usually he didn’t, and that was the mood that carried onto that night as well. He wasn’t really craving anything out of the ordinary to eat either- he could stand a little cup noodle right about then, though maybe after he finished the sweets first. So that the sweet aftertaste wouldn’t mix with the savoriness.</p><p>He paused. <em> caring about order of food - ? </em>he wrote.</p><p>Martin dropped his messenger bag and finished his hot chocolate off before his phone started ringing. Bit annoying, that. He had been just about to hop into a nice, hot bath, but it couldn’t have been helped. Without checking the caller ID, he brought it up to his ear, moving to the kitchen to find where he’d stashed the other pack of chicken ramen. “Hello?”</p><p><em>“Hello!” </em> An overly perky voice chirped on the other end, and Martin winced a bit, <em> “This is Emily, from the Cherub Hearts Care Home? Is this a Martin Blackwood I would be speaking to?”</em></p><p>“Yes, that’s me,” Martin said, and, dammit. He’d actually forgotten that this was the night of the week where he got an update call from the home. That was a <em> damn </em>important detail that had slipped his mind, particularly since just this morning, he had been dreading it. Calls from the care home were very rarely pleasant.</p><p>The fact that ‘just this morning’ seemed like years ago was not a good sign.</p><p>Emily introduced herself and explained that she was rather new, which was fine. She was doing admirably for her first week and seemed to clearly enjoy the work. But it was starting to grate on Martin’s nerves, because she was just a <em> little </em>too chipper about telling him what group activities his mother had refused to go to and just how much “personality” she had. As if Martin himself didn’t know after twenty-odd years of living with her himself- he already knew his mother, thank you very much. </p><p>She rambled a little too long and Martin just leaned against the counter in his kitchen, looking back over the rest of his flat with pursed lips as he waited for her to get to the point. </p><p>The point came with a little hitch in Miss Emily’s chipper voice, a note of genuine pity slipping in. <em> “As for a call tonight, ah… your mother said… well, she wasn’t feeling well, which she didn’t say, but she said she would rather not-” </em></p><p>“She doesn’t want to speak to me.” Martin said. She never did, of course, so it shouldn’t have irked him. And yet...</p><p><em>“No- I’m, er, very sorry, mister Blackwood,” </em> Emily said, <em> “If you’d like, I could try to set something up for the morning? See if she might be feeling a bit better then?”</em></p><p>“That’s very accommodating of you- but that won’t be necessary,” Martin said, words bitten out coldly before he could stop himself, “I won’t be accepting calls tomorrow morning.”</p><p>
  <em>"Well, there’s- there’s always another time this week?”</em>
</p><p>“I won’t be accepting calls the rest of the week.” Martin was about to add something when he froze. Stopped up short. His head caught up to the words coming out of his mouth and what he found in them was mortifying. (After all, this was Emily’s first week, he reminded himself, and he wasn’t angry at her. He was angry at           ) </p><p>After a long moment of silence, he put on his most cheerful voice and tried to ignore how false it sounded to him. “It’s just, er, I’ll be quite busy! Much to handle down at the office, you know how it is. Follow ups don’t do themselves!”</p><p>The woman sounded relieved after she heard that excuse, and he could hear the smile creep back into her voice. <em> “Oh, do I ever- in that case, I’ll let you go now. Is next week about the same time fine for the next update?” </em></p><p>“Yes, it will be,” Martin forced a smile to see if that would make his voice sound more genuine, “Thank you very much, miss Emily- you’ve been a tremendous help. Good luck with the rest of the job!”</p><p><em>“I may just need it, heheh,” </em>Emily commented, and the line went dead.</p><p>For a moment, Martin stayed perfectly still, hearing nothing coming from his phone’s speaker as the device remained pressed to his ear. He thought that he should write this down, maybe. Not just the interaction but the aftermath- the fact that now, when his thoughts should have been swirling at a thousand paces around his skull, when his chest should have been trying to bleed through his ribs, there was nothing.</p><p>Martin had gotten angry on the call. He’d felt angry before when he’d heard news of his mother’s apathy, sure, but he’d never said anything before. Had never lashed out quite like that, shown he was annoyed. The employees of the home were just doing their job, after all.</p><p>But he had gotten angry, and now, instead of feeling panic rise into his throat as bile or felt tears prick at his eyes, he felt</p><p>No. That wasn’t right.</p><p> </p><p><br/><br/>Martin didn’t feel anything.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Wake</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>CWs for minor blood mention, emotional manipulation &amp; gaslighting, mentioned death of a loved one, hospital &amp; illness mention, unreality wrt the perception of time</p><p>if there's anything we left out don't hesitate to let us know in the comments!!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Elias opened his eyes and peeled his cheek from his desk. He blinked as his eyes adjusted to stark office lighting.</p><p>
  <em> Ah, right. Fuck it all. </em>
</p><p>He hadn’t left the Institute last night. He couldn’t bear to be out in the world feeling… like this. Apparently, though, he hadn’t thought to clean up after his rather frantic-- <em>thorough, not frantic. Elias Bouchard is not a frantic man </em>--search for that damn book. He had of course already known that it wasn’t in his office anymore, but plenty of people choose to know things and don’t choose to believe them.</p><p>However, he <em> had </em> chosen to do the following: He had <em> chosen </em> to believe that his office did, in fact, have a closet when he threw that Polish fairytale under its door. He had <em> chosen </em> to prioritize that little game with his Peter-- <em>with Peter</em> --over the Institute for ten minutes, and here he was now, with a slightly sweaty cheek and an absolute mess of an office. Yes, both of those things had absolutely been conscious decisions, and absolutely were <em> not </em> oversights on his part. Plenty of people made worse mistakes, sure, but Elias Bouchard was not plenty of people. He did not fuck up like this, and certainly not for this feeble approximation of a marriage.</p><p>
  <em> Now is absolutely not the time to focus on that. Keep looking. </em>
</p><p>Elias stood and circled his desk, investigating the debris from the previous night. He had really been less careful than he should have… didn’t even organize the piles he created. He sighed and rolled up his sleeves to begin working, only to realize with a rather severe bout of nausea that he also hadn’t changed out of yesterday’s clothes. At least one of his employees was bound to notice, and drawing suspicion from any of them would only serve to make his job harder. </p><p>He walked around his desk again and opened the bottom right drawer to find the spare set of clothes that hadn’t seen the light of day in months, if not longer. They were certainly not bought recently--he hadn’t worn such a garish floral tie in ages--but they would have to do for now. He removed his rings before changing and laid them neatly in one corner of his desk. Though he found himself rolling his eyes at the action, he couldn’t bear tearing the only proper dress shirt in the whole Institute while he had so much other bullshit to hold together this morning. And at the very least, it would be one less thing for someone else to call him on.</p><p>Once he had changed into clean clothing and thrown his old outfit back into the drawer, he looked at his reflection in the mirror hanging on his office door. He looked a royal mess, and though all too aware of how entirely improper the whole outfit looked for the Head of the Magnus Institute-- <em>God damn this floral tie </em>--he was surprisingly comfortable with it. He looked… damn good, in all honesty, and outright laughed at the idea that he would’ve ever worn them before now.</p><p><em> Look at you, </em> he thought, <em> going through a rebellious stage in your early two-hundreds. Cute. </em> </p><p>Elias took a deep breath in and shook his head to snap himself out of it. Now was not the time to focus on this; he had to keep looking for this book. He had to keep Looking. There wasn’t even really a reason to keep at it--Elias Knew it wasn’t in the Institute, and he even Knew exactly who had it and where they were. He Knew that, just like with most things, he wouldn’t even really have to work to find a solution; either one would present itself to him directly, or one of his employees would take care of it without him even moving a finger.</p><p>But God, was he struggling to just keep still and let things run their course. After an entire career that amounted to sitting, waiting, and solving-by-proxy, ten minutes in his office chair was enough to drive him mad. The night before, he had had the vaguest itch to just start breaking his bookshelves--to smash or rip apart every sweet little antique that he had collected there throughout the ages--and came dangerously close to doing so before he remembered his place. He would have to seriously reign in that particular impulse before it got the best of him.</p><p>
  <em> Damn these choices straight to Hell. </em>
</p><p>He went back to cleaning. At least pacing and cleaning meant he could ignore the sickening impatience brewing in his stomach. If he had to wait for a solution--and just as well as he knew that there <em> would </em> be a solution, he knew this was the one situation where he genuinely had no choice but to wait--he might as well get some energy out. Maybe he’d sneak out later and go to a fucking gun range or something.</p><p>Just as he finished righting all the papers on his desk, he heard two knocks on his office door and cursed himself for not expecting them. After a beat of quiet, he looked over to see Martin standing in the doorway with a cup of tea, and almost laughed out loud. The chosen mug was objectively the <em> ugliest </em>mug in the entire Institute--some dirt-greyish green thing with zero other defining features--and Martin eyed it with a kind of smug pride. After a bit of hesitation and a quick glance around the room, he spoke up.</p><p>“Er - Elias? I-I hope this isn’t a bad time…”</p><p>“Come now, Martin,” Elias said, sitting down in his desk chair and lacing his hands together on his desk. “What sort of executive would I be if I didn’t make time for my employees?”</p><p>When Martin didn’t respond, Elias tilted his head neatly in the direction of the teacup.</p><p>“Is that for me?”</p><p>After what felt like a dreadfully long time, Martin finally entered the room. He looked… aggressively wary, almost, eyeing Elias with that same splash of suspicion that more and more frequently marred his employees’ features. Elias thought briefly of Pollock and was momentarily torn between laughing to himself and wrinkling his nose. In the end, he chose to do neither, and instead gave Martin a soft smile and a raised eyebrow.</p><p>Martin set the teacup gently on Elias’ desk and sat in the chair across from him.</p><p>“Ah, yes,” he started, “Yes, actually. I, um, heard from Rosie that you… hadn’t been feeling well last night.”</p><p>Had he not known any better, Elias would’ve been almost touched by the gesture. He wasn’t sure exactly how Martin knew Elias’ favorite tea--chamomile with honey--but after a quick sip, he judged it to be rather excellently made, and considered asking Martin to bring him a second cup later.</p><p>
  <em> Not the time, Bouchard. </em>
</p><p>“How very considerate of you,” he said, as smugly as he could manage, “but you need not worry about it. Just a bit of a head cold, I think.”</p><p>“It’s… it’s funny you say that, you know,” Martin fidgeted nervously, watching his hands as they twisted together in his lap. “It’s just that yesterday something started to go around the Archives, too…”</p><p>Elias set the teacup on his desk a bit too hastily, and winced as Martin looked up from his hands, his eyes tracing the few drops that spilled over the edge. He steeled his expression and tightened his already-uncomfortable grip on the mug.</p><p>“Yes, well, it is about that time of year, isn’t it?” he asked, “Can’t be too surprised, especially when you all work so… closely.”</p><p>Surprisingly, Martin held Elias’ eye contact for a long, silent moment. If Elias had had anyone else’s Eldritch expertise, he might’ve cracked under the weight of it.</p><p>“I suppose so, but…” Martin paused. His next words were rather carefully chosen, Elias noticed. “It almost seems like we’ve all been getting the sort of head cold you seem to have? And <em> you </em> haven’t been down to the Archives.”</p><p>Martin knew <em> something, </em>but he clearly wasn’t going to be very forthcoming. </p><p><em> Very well then, </em> Elias thought. <em> Let’s play a game. </em>He purposefully held Martin’s eye contact as Martin spoke, and tried his best to remain otherwise expressionless and cold. Eventually, Martin looked back down at his hands and spoke again.</p><p>“It just seems like an odd coincidence… is all.”</p><p>Elias hummed in response and, since Martin’s gaze had relented, found his own settling in the direction where the closet door used to be. He rolled the phrases <em> there was a man upon the stair </em> and <em> a closet door that wasn’t there </em>around on his tongue and let his mind sink briefly into the stiff silence that fell over the room. When he spoke, the quiet shattered like the oldest, shittiest window, and his grip on the mug grew all the more tense for it.</p><p>“I’m not sure I follow what's so coincidental about it,” he replied, looking back at Martin out of the corner of his eye. “All you need to do is touch the same door handle at the wrong time, hm?”</p><p>“I-I suppose so, but- um… all I mean is…” Martin trailed off again, biting his lip for a moment and continuing to stare at his own fidgeting hands. He peered up at Elias and broke his own silence, “If you had the same kind of head cold we had, I could see why you’d want to stay in your office.”</p><p><em> Just spit it out, </em> Elias thought with a frown and furrowed eyebrows as he lifted the cup back to his mouth and took another sip. <em> Just tell me what you know. </em> When he lowered the cup for a second time, he replaced the frown with what was (hopefully) the sweetest smile he could manage. He doubted its ability to reach his eyes. <em> Damn these choices. </em></p><p>“What kind of executive would I be if I exposed my dear employees to something like this on purpose?” Elias asked with an innocent tilt to his head, and Martin’s expression twisted into something both intimately familiar and deeply unsettling. A newly weighted silence fell over the room, and Elias’ feet started tapping impatiently under his desk.</p><p><em> Just. </em> Tap. <em> Spit. </em> Tap. <em> It. </em> Tap. <em> Out. </em>Tap.</p><p>“Framing for murder was a bit too tame for you, then?”</p><p><em> Oh. </em>His feet stopped, and his mouth fell open for a brief moment before he managed to steel himself again. He cleared his throat as delicately as he could manage, aiming for “polite bureaucrat” and landing more in the domain of “What did that dog eat?” </p><p><em> Lovely, </em> he thought. <em> Not even twenty-four hours of this and all sense of decorum just... thrown out the window. </em></p><p>“I only had the Institute’s best interests at heart, Martin,” he said, putting the teacup back on his desk and lacing his fingers in front of him again. “And if you think about it,” he continued, leaning forward slightly, “where would any of you be without it?”</p><p>“Mentally well, for one.” Martin replied, and the words reverberated sharply around the room. Elias barked out a genuine laugh.</p><p>“Oh, Martin, we both know that’s not true,” he replied. “Don’t kid yourself.”</p><p>“Well, <em> I </em>wouldn’t know,” Martin frowned. “That’s apparently your… thing. Knowing things about us.”</p><p>“Not just about you all,” Elias said with a tilt of his head, “but yes, as far as fountains of knowledge go, you <em> are </em>rather… conveniently located.”</p><p>Martin’s hands only gripped each other tighter, and Elias pointedly stared at this anxious behavior as Martin’s frown deepened. He returned the frown with a smug smile.</p><p>“And what about you?” Martin asked between clenched teeth. “You seem like you’d be the most… convenient. Even if you do have a <em> head cold.” </em></p><p>Feeling his expression deepening into a faint frown, Elias stood from his chair and walked to stand in front of his desk, facing Martin. He leaned back against his desk with his ankles crossed and pulled a floral-- <em>Of course it is </em>--handkerchief out of his left pocket. Crossing his arms in front of him, he rather pointedly feigned a cough into it.</p><p>“If this is some roundabout way of telling me you have an HR complaint,” he started, “take it up with Rosie.”</p><p>“This is nothing that can be solved through… human channels,” Martin replied without missing a beat, and seemed to lean forward slightly in his chair. “But I’m sure you know that.”</p><p>For a brief moment, Elias rested his chin on the handkerchief in his hand and considered how much he could theoretically reveal. <em> Christ, </em> he just wanted this stupid back-and-forth to be over with. And <em> Christ, he is so tired.  </em></p><p>For some deeply irritating reason, his feet had yet to stop their impatient tapping. His hand remained calm, at least, but this game <em> that he himself had started </em>had clearly put his mind in overdrive, and it was showing. Realizing that Martin was waiting patiently for his next move, Elias leaned forward, his chin braced on his fingertips. </p><p>Frankly, this little act felt <em> remarkably </em>slimy, but… </p><p><em> Checkmate or bust, </em>he reminded himself for perhaps the first time in his entire bicentennial existence.</p><p>“Now, Martin,” he said with a slight tilt of his head and as innocent an expression as he could manage, “I’m sure I have no idea what you mean. Care to enlighten me, sage?”</p><p>To Elias’ frustration and something akin to horror, Martin mirrored his movements and tilted his head in turn.</p><p>“Why?” he asked with a sweet smile. “I’m sure with our… <em> accessibility… </em> you can enlighten yourself whenever you’re amenable.”</p><p>Elias barked out a laugh. “Well sure, but that’s a bit too easy, hm?” </p><p>“What, using whatever vaguely defined powers you have to know why we’re having this conversation?” </p><p>Elias Bouchard had never felt so goddamn tired. He leaned back against his desk more casually and threw his hands up in a yielding gesture.</p><p>“Alright, fine. I was only trying to play along for a moment,” he responded.</p><p>“There is no game, Elias,” Martin said with a frown. “There’s nothing to play along with.”</p><p>Elias felt his eyebrows twitch involuntarily.</p><p>
  <em> Elias Bouchard is not an involuntary man. </em>
</p><p>“Martin, do you really think I can’t see past your evasiveness? You came to <em> me, </em> didn’t you? There must have been a <em> reason </em> or else you wouldn’t have pushed through…” he hesitated for a moment and gestured between them with his hands and what felt like vague disgust on his face, “Whatever this was.” Still balanced against his desk, he leaned forward with his hands braced on his knees. “Why are you here? I know <em> you </em>don’t have all day, and frankly, neither do I.”</p><p>Martin’s eyebrows furrowed, and he looked back down at his hands for a brief moment before returning Elias’ eye contact in full force.</p><p>“I trust you can see why I’m here then as well,” he started. “Someone as <em> intelligent </em>as you ought to be able to recognize what’s going on even without using eldritch powers as a crutch.”</p><p><em> “A crutch!” </em> Elias whispered to himself, throwing his hands up again and rolling his eyes. He righted himself and walked back behind his desk to sit in his chair.</p><p>“And here I thought you were <em> mature </em>enough to have a normal conversation so that I wouldn’t have to use them.”</p><p>“If I didn’t know you, I might be able to believe you,” Martin said, cocking an eyebrow. “Or did you just <em> forget </em>that you don’t have to hide what you’re really doing anymore?”</p><p>Elias surprised himself with an open laugh.</p><p>“Believe me, it’s unlikely I’ll forget <em> that </em>any time soon.”</p><p>He paused for a moment, cocking his head as he studied Martin’s expressions.</p><p>“How do you feel about the theatre, Martin?” he asked.</p><p>With a sigh and a slight eye roll, Martin stood from the chair opposite Elias’ and turned to leave the room.</p><p>“Have a good day, Mister Bouchard,” he said in a soft voice that snaked across Elias’ desk and filled his throat and lungs with venom.</p><p>“Please just answer the question, Mister Blackwood.”</p><p>With another sigh, Martin turned back around.</p><p>“Neutral,” he said between pursed lips. “Is there a point being made here?”</p><p>“I’m assuming you’ve never been in a play, then?”</p><p>“You could know for sure any time you’d like.” </p><p>“Oh, for the love of--” Elias paused and massaged his temples. “I will assume, for the sake of my own sanity and a swift end to this conversation, that you haven’t.” He hesitated for a moment and met Martin’s eyes again. “In that case, allow me to pass along a small bit of advice: It will do you well to remember that character knowledge and player knowledge are not the same thing.”</p><p>“Right,” Martin said, turning on his heel to leave again. “I’ll be heading out now.”</p><p>Elias looked back down at his desk and started to leaf through the still-disorganized papers left behind from last night’s… rampage, for lack of a dishonest word.</p><p>“I think that’s for the best,” he said, and then, smirking, “Break a leg.”</p><p>Martin said nothing--only left the room, quietly closing the door behind him with a click. Elias had never thought that that noise would represent such a weight off his shoulders, but the second it hit he let out a deep breath and sank back in his chair. He loosened his tie slightly and contemplated screaming into that god awful matching kerchief before thinking better of it--he’d just gotten the antivenom; no need to exacerbate the wound.</p><p>This was going to be <em> exhausting. </em></p><p>
  <em> Elias Bouchard had never been such an exhausted man. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>--</p><p> </p><p>“Bit too quiet around here,” Melanie was saying, “... almost suspiciously so.”</p><p>“Mm,” Basira hummed, not at all taking in whatever had just been said. She glanced up at Melanie, who was leaning over the partition of the various assistants’ desks and looking at her. Realizing she was likely expecting an answer and, even more than that, a conversation, Basira set her book aside. Asked, “Sorry?” as she checked her phone for the time. 9:05 A.M., on the dot.</p><p>“It’s quiet ‘round here.” Melanie repeated, resting her chin on the dull metal running along the top of the wooden divider. </p><p>Basira said, “You’re not expecting me to do anything about that, are you.”</p><p>Melanie’s lips pursed before she replied, “Of course not- I’m just saying the three stooges haven’t made their appearance yet. That’s kinda weird, innit?”</p><p>“Personally, I’d be fine not jinxing it,” Basira said, taking a sip of her coffee, “‘s good to have some peace every once in a while.”</p><p>“Well, least someone’s making the most of a nine-to-five hostage situation,” Melanie said, smiling sardonically. </p><p>“Someone has to,” Basira picked up her book, thinking that would be the end of it, and was immediately proven wrong. One of the three stooges saw to that by slamming his way through the door, jacket slung over his elbow. </p><p>“Has Jon assigned anything?” Tim asked.</p><p>“Um… he’s… not in,” Melanie said, bewildered. Basira turned her head in Tim’s direction and saw why that was. Tim, slightly haggard and with two cowlicks at the front of his hair that seemed unwilling to be slicked down, was in plain, formal business dress.</p><p>It was jarring, after seeing his fashion slowly erode from stylish print shirts and trousers to jeans and tank tops; it was especially jarring because Basira hadn’t known the man even <em> owned </em>an unpatterned tie. Even his socks matched his tie matched his belt, which was needlessly boring in the way that reminded Basira of those Cambridge blokes who wrote articles like “Is Inverse Snobbery a Problem for Poor People?”</p><p>“Good,” Tim said, “don’t tell him I’m in. Thanks.” </p><p>“Sure…?” Melanie said as Tim went to his desk and started gathering up as many of the sparse files and papers gathered on top as he could. “You okay there, mate? You’re seeming a little frantic.”</p><p>“I’m NOT <em> frantic,” </em>Tim said, head snapping up. The deepening of the bags under his eyes said that he hadn’t had the most restful of weekends. “Just don’t tell him! I’ve got- other work- to attend to.” </p><p>“Work more important than follow up...?” Basira questioned, eyebrows slowly rising. It wasn’t that Tim’s work ethic was entirely poor or anything- he still did the work assigned to him with a rather impressive amount of speed, all things considering. Never more than he had to, unless it had to do with the Circus. But this was the first time Basira was seeing him so… energetic, in the morning. </p><p>“Maybe! I hardly see how it’s your concern,” Tim said, already starting toward the Head Archivist’s office. </p><p>“Don’t you still have a job to do?” Melanie asked, annoyed. </p><p>Tim was already through the door as he called back, “Not now I don’t!” and that was that. </p><p>Melanie and Basira stared after where Tim had gone for a few moments, speechless. It wasn’t as though there was much to say about it, really. Tim had just swept through with the energy of a chihuahua in a thunderstorm and they just had to kind of deal with that.</p><p>“Man,” Melanie said lowly, “I knew he was gonna have a breakdown one of these days, but this...”</p><p>“I’m surprised it took this long to be honest.” Basira said idly, “Thought for sure he’d have one when you made him cry last week.”</p><p>Melanie winced a bit at that and started to say, “Listen, I didn’t think that mentioning that Sasha would do that-”</p><p>She was interrupted when Martin strolled into the room, looking over it with a somewhat curious look. He said, “Hey, did Tim just run through here? I thought I saw him on my way down, but…” </p><p>“Probably ran off into the spooky tunnels.” Basira said, turning to face the second of the stooges. At the very least Martin seemed just about as normal as ever; maybe standing a little straighter in his wool jumper, but nothing too out of the ordinary. </p><p>Melanie huffed out a tiny breath as she asked, “You guys are all late- do you reckon there’s anything up with that?”</p><p>“I’m not sure about the others, but there’s nothing too exciting on my end, I’m afraid,” Martin said, “I had to catch a later train since I missed the first one.”</p><p>“I mean Sims still isn’t in, so you’re probably fine,” Melanie said, “We still got coffee?” Martin made a slightly disgusted face and was saying something mundane, but by that point Basira had just about checked out. She picked her book back up and got to reading.</p><p>Halfway through the fifth chapter was about the moment when Basira realized she was out of coffee. Slightly disgruntled by the find, she dogeared the page and was about to ask Melanie if the pot was still on when she caught sight of the time. It was already ten. And still, no sign of Jonathan Sims anywhere.</p><p>And no sign of any sort of worry for that, either. Basira glanced over to Martin, but he was already on the beat up desktop he’d claimed as his own, searching for the personal history of F. Antsey. A bit odd, not to hear anything about Jon being bizarrely late from him, but she supposed Martin had been telling the truth about taking escape seriously. Or maybe he just wised up to the fact that Sims seemed more liable to up and disappear these days. </p><p>Whatever the case, she wasn’t any sort of mind reader here. Shrugging it off, Basira got up to head for the kitchen, mug in hand. </p><p>This was the exact moment Jon made his appearance. Basira didn’t have the excuse of occupying herself otherwise to look away and that was a shame, because Jonathan Sims was currently at the door dressed almost exactly like Martin.</p><p>There were differences, of course. Jon’s jumper was a coral cable-knit thrown over a more professional button-up than he’d bothered with lately. His hair was still as long as ever, hanging loose over his shoulders. He still was wearing a long skirt; that, at least, hadn’t been traded away. But the style was eerily reminiscent of Martin, still clicking away at his keyboard with single minded focus. </p><p>A bit weird, but. Okay.</p><p>“Morning,” Basira said.</p><p>“Good morning! I am <em>so </em>sorry, you all,” Jon said immediately, holding onto the doorframe a little tighter as he caught his breath. The man looked as though he’d just about sprinted here- which was alarming, because that likely meant there was a tangible reason holding him up. “I-I think I missed the first few alarms and then the Admiral kept trying to get my attention, but Georgie was busy with recording some ad for a-? Some kind of weird spring-form pillow I think?? I’m not entirely sure, but it was something, and then I missed my train, and-”</p><p>“Who’s Georgie, exactly?” asked Martin blankly, not looking up from the screen. Basira rolled her eyes. Jealousy never was a good look on Martin, but trying to hide it wasn’t going to work. </p><p>“She’s- um, she’s my temporary flatmate. It’s nothing too much,” Jon said, rubbing the back of his neck. “G-Good morning to you, Martin.” </p><p>“Good morning, Jon.” Martin said through pursed lips, finally turning in his chair to face Jon, “It’s good that you found…” </p><p>From Basira’s point of view, she couldn’t see the look on Martin’s face when he saw how Jon looked. She only saw the back of his red hair and the moment of silence that dragged on after it. Jon, looking increasingly uncomfortable, shifted a bit on his feet, eyes drifting down to the floor as one hand fidgeted with his sleeves.</p><p>“Hey, so like,” Melanie said finally, “can we get any explanation about… what all this is about, then?”</p><p>Jon’s eyebrows furrowed as he looked to Melanie, baffled, as he said, “... Nothing? I was, ah, just late because of- I mean, you were listening-”</p><p>“Late- Jon, I mean <em> you,” </em>Melanie said, “Like, how you’re acting, right now. The whole… thing you’re doing.”</p><p>Jon frowned. “I’m not doing any <em> thing- </em>and I’m! Not acting all that odd either… I just,” He reached up and tucked a strand behind his ear, seemingly unable to stay still, “have been thinking some things over, this weekend, and well-”</p><p>“So you decided to steal Martin’s fashion sense?” Melanie asked incredulously. Maybe this wouldn’t have been so odd, had Jon not been acting similarly off on Friday- but he had been, and this was off. </p><p>“Stealing Martin’s-? What in Heaven’s name do you mean?” Jon’s frown only deepened. “It’s- Martin has a lovely sense of fashion, thank you, but- but that doesn’t have any meaning, since it’s mostly just clothing, so.”</p><p>Martin finally said, soft as anything, “You look good.” </p><p>The flush settling over Jon’s face was immediately apparent. “Oh- oh, er, that.” </p><p>At the same time Martin suddenly jolted, squeaking out as he buried his face in his hands, “Oh- I hadn’t meant to- to say that, out loud, or? Or I mean, m-maybe I did but not, I didn’t think you would be able to hear- that doesn’t make it better, t’s just, you’re in that sweater- I know they’re saying you’re looking like me b-but-”</p><p>“You’re fine!! It’s okay! Really, I should be the one apologizing,” Jon said, dark skin flushing darker, “I’m sorry if- if it looks like I, well, ‘stole your look’ as it were-”</p><p>“No! No it’s fine, really!” Martin stumbled over his words, “You look good! Much cuter in that jumper than I would be-”</p><p>Jon was talking over him, “Well that’s not right, but- sorry, you can’t just say that-”</p><p>Melanie whispered, “Please God, kill me.”</p><p>The stuttering and awkward pseudo-flirting was already winding down, but even that much was far more than Basira had ever wanted to see, know, or handle in her lifetime. Not only was Jon acting supremely strange, but with this entire back and forth between him and Martin, it almost felt like watching two Martins try to profess their love. Absolute torment. </p><p>As Martin and Jon filed out of the room, both offering to make the other tea as recompense, all Basira could do was look after them. Beside her, Melanie asked, “Hey. What the fuck.” </p><p>“... Reckon it’s another breakdown?” Basira asked. </p><p>“If that’s a breakdown, it’s the weirdest goddamn one I’ve seen Sims go on,” Melanie said, “and he had some weird fuckin’ hangups even <em> before </em>I got into this job.”</p><p>“Hm. Well,” Basira said, shaking her head as she went back to her seat, setting the empty mug aside so as to not deal with whatever mess was unfolding in the kitchen, “at least Martin still seems normal.”</p><p> </p><p>--</p><p> </p><p>After that morning’s particular show of saccharine social torment, Melanie was all too ready to go out and do some on-site follow up, if only to get away from the rotating cast of tense people who were tense enough to be assholes but not tense enough to let her shank the murderer. The experience of Jon actually <em> assigning </em>the statement investigation didn’t help, either.</p><p>She didn’t really have the patience to get into whatever the hell was happening with Jon’s life trajectory. She <em> really </em>didn’t. Just wanted to give Georgie a call to double confirm that she was okay with dealing with whatever fresh bullshit this was. Didn’t really get how she could stand his constant dour stuffiness. But, that had to come later.</p><p>She quickly found, however, that Jon struggling to get information out between trying to excuse himself out of existence was at least as (if not more) insufferable than him doing it between a well of insults and disdain. It took all of half an hour to get the matter straight.</p><p>After actually reading the statement, she thought perhaps the winding explanations and backtracking might actually just be baked into this one.</p><p>It turned out investigating the Spiral tended to lead them to statements that had little follow-up potential and even less coherence. For one, it was made a good four years ago, and for another, the statement giver didn’t seem to actually know the date he gave it or how long he’d had the book the statement was regarding. Or which book had actually caused what happened to him.</p><p>With text that had so much bouncing between the present and past tenses that it’d give a school teacher motion sickness, Emery Morris had described needing to update the return dates on about twenty or so books from the library where he somehow had still retained a job. He had somehow retained this job even after not filling them in when they’d been returned, only to have his perception of time scrambled on the axis of the date he’d written down.</p><p>He’d not realized that it was three weeks later when he’d found out that he’d been fired; the transgression of stealing the books being the cherry on top of his history of carelessness in doing his job because he’d felt all urgency to work dissipate upon touching the stack of books and going back to the unassuming bliss of the day he thought he could get the work done in bulk and be done with it every time he tried to return them.</p><p>All in all, not the weirdest work experience Melanie had heard about even outside of her situation of being trapped like rats in service of the Magnus Institute. Lucky bastard even got fired.</p><p>What followed was a winding tale about him raking up quite a bit of debt, committing two counts of tax evasion--the details of which he’d only vaguely recalled--and apparently being on the cusp of deciding that a lifetime of disorientated half-recalling of events and timelines was worth it for not having to look over his shoulder every time he made a transaction. And then he’d double confirmed the Institute’s nondisclosure policy and left, leaving an incorrect date on the statement form and absolutely no way to get in contact with him.</p><p>Having spent the most of the morning trying to trace a Mr. Emery Morris whose name had stopped appearing on records two years ago, and who didn’t even seem to know his own age, Melanie couldn’t say she blamed Jon for judging this one as worth the effort of extra follow-up when he’d first read it.</p><p>She <em> could </em> blame him for thinking that the fact that the stolen books were part of that library’s fantasy section was reason enough to investigate it further, and for saddling her with most of the actual cross-referencing of old records in the City Directory.</p><p>It was a familiar enough thing to do--calling up connections and searching for people--to at least feel like a good accomplishment in her area of expertise, but she had the suspicion that she’d been called to do this just because Tim was flaking into basement hell and she was less adept at expressing just how full her plate already was than Martin and Basira were. (She had tried, of course, but apparently researching places to obtain all-enveloping toxic gasses and ways to deliver them to specific rooms didn’t constitute an appropriate use of work time.)</p><p>Still. She’d heard someone mention that Elias was coming down with a sickness earlier. If they were lucky, maybe it would kill him fast enough that she wouldn’t have to. She wondered if a head cold would make him slower to spot her coming at him.</p><p>“You heading out?” asked Martin, popping his head over his computer at his desk.  </p><p>“Going to look for someone who had a run-in with some confusing books,” she said. She gave the copies of the statement in her file a quick pat.</p><p>Martin cocked his head to read the statement summary over his desk. “Oh! I remember that one- do you, ah… actually, would you mind if I come with?”</p><p>“I don’t think Sims-“</p><p>“It’ll be useful!” He said, seemingly steamrolling any reply as he buzzed around the place to gather his notes. Shouldn’t be too surprised, she guessed, that if Martin thought this was something he could do for Jon he wouldn’t be backing down. Still, though, she was thinking of calling Georgie on the way, and having him along would be… awkward.</p><p>“Don’t you think it’d be more useful if you stayed and took up the rest of the research?” She asked after a moment of watching him collect his things.</p><p>“I worked a bit on this case when it came up before you were here, Melanie- I think I could provide <em> some </em>expertise.”</p><p>“…Fine.”</p><p>She went back to sorting out her own bag: Gloves, in case they needed to actually handle the book, the statement’s files, and a good, hefty crowbar in case they needed to break into the bloke’s flat.</p><p>“Don’t forget the forms for the interview paperwork,” Martin called over his shoulder, a bit impatiently, “There is a way these things are done.”</p><p>“…Keep them in yours. I’m full.” As if Melanie would’ve forgotten. There <em> was </em>a proper way to do this job. She just… wasn’t all that happy with giving it the courtesy.</p><p>As Martin hollered something to Basira about their plans and they made their way back up through the institute, Melanie felt comforted that she’d be in a more familiar element of ‘anywhere that isn’t this dank, evil, academic mousetrap’ soon.</p><p>“I’ll do most of the talking, yeah?” Martin said over his shoulder as he led the way up the stairs. “There’s matters I’d like to hear from the man myself.”</p><p>“Don’t see why that means we can’t both ask him questions,” Melanie replied, eyebrows raised. There was an indignant knot on her chest as she mulled over the fact that she should be able to conduct a proper interview, given that it was part of what she’d been doing for a living before she ended up in this mess. She sped up, trying to fall into step with Martin, who for some reason seemed to be striding much more urgently to get to this case than she’d grown used to.</p><p>“Well I’m sure you can, but I’d much like to avoid being caught in the middle of any, ah- unnecessary row,” said Martin, eyeing the compartment of the bag she’d stuffed the crowbar in.</p><p>Melanie gave a huff. “Oh please, you don’t think I’m gonna try to smack a man’s face with it to get the book off of him, do you?”</p><p>“You certainly seemed annoyed at his paper trail this morning-”</p><p>“Oh so you did notice that when you and Jon saddled me with finding the guy, good to hear. You know, if I’d known whatever research you were doing on him wasn’t actually needed to find a guy who occasionally forgets to use his new name to sign lease papers-”</p><p>“I just thought I’d spare you the effort of having to talk to him,” Martin retorted without missing a beat, shooting an irritated glance at her that was quickly tramped down again. </p><p>There was a lull of silence as Melanie opened her mouth to give a reply, before Martin apparently decided to continue, this time in a slightly more even tone. “Look, if we’re correct in our assumption that he still has the book, he’s been holding onto it for years. You saw how he wrote the statement when he had time to filter it through paper. I just think he’d be… a lot to deal with if the effects are continuing on his person.”</p><p>“Mhmm,” Melanie bit the side of her mouth. She was pretty sure the last time Martin was that snippy was when…  “So what’s going on with you and Jon this time?” She asked.</p><p>Martin seemed to start. “W-What?”</p><p>“You know, Jon seems to be warming up to you- and I’m not getting enlisted to be his inside man as a murder suspect at the moment and you still sound like you’re going to nip me- so what gives?”</p><p>Martin seemed to be undergoing an impressive facial journey at that. “Do you really think he’s- I wasn’t- Look,” he took a breath. “I can assure you that Jon and I are doing<em> just </em>fine, and this isn’t the time for that so if you would just let me handle th- the actual job I’ve been doing for longer than you have, that would be appreciated. Besides, I think you could be of greater use than this interview is going to be--if I keep him preoccupied, you can have more time and free rein to search the rest of his house for the actual book, and we’ll be closer to actually obtaining it.” Without waiting for her to reply, he turned around and stepped out of the archives.</p><p>Melanie grumbled her anger at the bit where he tried to hold seniority over her as she followed him through. This was going to be a goddamn miserable time.</p><p> </p><p>--</p><p> </p><p>Emerson Morris had so little grasp on his own chronology that it was easy to say that they were following up on the statement he’d given four months ago, as though the previous four years hadn’t happened. Martin introduced himself, then Melanie, and then Melanie asked to use the bathroom to get implicit permission to snoop through the rest of the house. It was orderly, simple, and trod much of the same ground Martin had come to know.</p><p>No, getting in was easy. The more difficult part was tea time.</p><p>For one thing, the loose leaves squished in the metal container were half-rotten. The resulting steam was dank, fluttering in spirals above the cup that Emery handed him. Mentioning the decay probably wouldn’t sit well, so Martin said nothing. He could save those choice words for when he had the book in his possession.</p><p>For another thing, the mirror that hung on the wall beside them was showing a much older man sitting across from him. Four years wasn’t nearly enough time for such deep wrinkles to set in. When the younger Emery across from him smiled, there were dimples and a bite of crow’s feet where his eyes squinted; when the Emery in the mirror smiled, the skin flaps hanging loosely around his lips spiraled back into the flesh of his cheeks, pulsing vaguely pinkish into the hollow created around his eyes. Not a pretty picture by any means, but one Martin would have to deal with, as unnerving as it was.</p><p>“I do hope your friend is doing alright,” Emery said, voice cracking between his teeth, “She’s been quite a while…”</p><p>“Ah, about that- she said she wasn’t feeling well earlier,” Martin smiled apologetically, resting his hands around the warm mug, “And well, our boss is a bit strict, you understand- said she had to come out and make herself useful for once.”</p><p>“Oh don’t I know it,” Emery said, “My boss will probably be on my case in the morning.” As if he still had a job after the track record he unknowingly left behind. </p><p>“He sounds like a bit of a nag,” Martin said mildly, as if he didn’t know that Walter Hill had gone missing a few weeks after Emery was fired.</p><p>“Just a tad- I suppose that’s just what youth does to people,” Emerson sighed longingly, the edge of a ragged nail scratching the air between flesh and the mirror’s edge.</p><p>“You would know, hm? You’re looking quite young yourself,” Martin took a sip of the tea, doing his best not to wince as he let the taste of rot linger under his tongue. </p><p>“You flatter me, Mister Blackwood,” Emerson said, eyes twinkling, “Now, then- what was it you wanted to say?”</p><p>“I believe we’ve already run through most of the initial questions at the door, so I might as well cut to the point- do you mind terribly?” Martin asked, looking over the rim of his cup, “I do hope that isn’t too rude of me to ask. It’s just that with Miss King…” </p><p>“By all means,” said Emery.</p><p>“We want your book. The one that caused everything.”</p><p>That gave Emerson pause. The cup of tea in his trembling fingers stilled in the air as the young-old-somewhere-in-the-center man looked over the frames of his wire glasses, eyes searching Martin’s face. Martin politely sipped his expired tea and didn’t mention the mold crawling off the plate of biscuits while Emery took his time to answer.</p><p>“And why is that, lad?” Emery asked, measured. There was a chip on the reflection’s tea cup and his pinky was cut. </p><p>The blood gently spiraled into the dainty little cup and Martin drank, taking a moment to look unsure of his own words for the audience. “I don’t know how else to say this other than that I… need its help.” </p><p>He set the tea aside and waited for Emery to cue for him to continue. And Martin continued, “I believe there’s something terribly wrong happening to my friends- ever since last week, they’ve been acting… strange. Losing time, as it were- forgetting who they were before, saying things they’d never said before… It- it sounds so strange, but when T- a, coworker, stopped telling jokes, I was… frightened. It was just so unlike him, and we, he’s been through a lot, but- there was always some humor there. Even if it was a little bitter! And now, Melanie…” </p><p>Martin stopped short, looking down at the way his hands were twined together and delicately angling his thumb a little lower over his left pointer finger. He bit his lip, wondering how hard he should bite--<em> Would a little blood get his point across better? </em>--and Emery gently asked, “What about ‘Melanie’?”</p><p>“Now she’s sick too,” Martin said quietly, “and we fought for the first time in years, coming here.”</p><p>The statement giver took a long moment to let that settle. Martin waited patiently and was rewarded with that patience with a soft sigh and, “Out of the question.”</p><p>“But-!” Martin looked up at the older man, affecting a devastated look, “Why…? You’ve already felt its effects-”</p><p>“Your story is sad- I’ll give you that,” Ah, damn. That meant Martin hadn’t pressed hard enough on the emotional angle. “But it doesn’t sound like anything that really needs a book as strong as that. Friends get into rows all the time.”</p><p>“Not the way we were- not like <em> that.” </em>Martin said desperately, “Not since we were still working on Melanie’s show together-! And even then, she never brought up my-” He carefully cut himself off, eyes widening as though he hadn’t meant to say that. “I know her. She would never just… snap like that.” </p><p>“Even so- none of that’s my problem,” Emerson said, leaning back into his seat as his reflection’s rubber hose neck bent backward at a forty-five degree angle. “It’s something you learn when you get to my age. Keeping to yourself, that is.”</p><p>“You weren’t keeping to yourself when you came last week!” Martin said, hands clenching. </p><p>“It’s been ten years. More than enough time to get selfish.” </p><p>“You’re not selfish- you don’t give off that impression.”</p><p>“Well,” Emerson said, “you’d be wrong about that. Now, as for your friend in my bathroom-”</p><p>“You have a little brother.” That stopped Emery from rocking back further. Martin figured this trump card was better played sooner, than the card about Melanie being his “very best friend in the whole of the world”- it was still the truth, after all. “In the hospital, right? He still hasn’t woken up.”</p><p>“I never told your lot about that.” Emerson’s eyes narrowed.</p><p>“It came up in the research- when we were looking up the tax fraud,” Martin watched all color fade from Emery’s face and knew he’d found the ticket. It was a razor’s edge from here--push too far and he risked Morris closing himself off; too lightly and his resolve would stick. “If you’ll recall, you suddenly had a large deposit to pay off the medical bills from keeping him on life support. That money just so happened to be paid after they found you’d committed the first count.” </p><p>The silence that followed was deafening. It took a full thirty seconds for Emerson to reply, “And what of it?” </p><p>“It’s just that… I. I think I understand- why you would do something like that.” Martin said, holding Emery’s gaze. </p><p>
  <em> Hook. </em>
</p><p>“And you want me to understand,” Emerson said, cautious, “that you can use that against me.”</p><p>“No! Of course not!” Martin said, eyes widening. His lips trembled as he took a breath, closing his eyes as if this was difficult. When he opened his eyes, he said, “It’s just that, I. I think we’re the same, in that way. I don’t really have anyone outside of work friends and Mel, and I… When I had to send my mum to the hospital, after she started getting bad… they were all I had left.”</p><p>“... Your mum, huh?” Emery was softening up. “... What was she like?”</p><p>“She wanted me to live my life to the fullest.” Martin lied. He came to terms with his new lease on motherhood Friday night and hadn’t bothered himself with it for the rest of the weekend. Well… more on the change itself than the actual point of his mother. “I just want to be a good son for her… it’s the least I can manage, right?”</p><p>
  <em> Line. </em>
</p><p>Emery opened his mouth. A hot flush of crocodile tears crowded Martin’s vision, unshed, and he looked away as though he were embarrassed to be seen being so ‘vulnerable,’ and his host closed his mouth, jowls flickering uncertainly in the mirror. The emotion in the old man’s eyes was impossible to ignore.</p><p>So he was a real family man. Truly, a noble spirit.</p><p>“I’m… sorry,” Martin said, swallowing down the derision that attempted to bleed into the words. “I know we’ve only just met, and now I- I didn’t mean to. If you like, we could move on to- something else.”</p><p>“How long,” asked Emery, “would you need the book for?”</p><p>
  <em> Sinker. </em>
</p><p>“I can…? You’re sure?” Martin sniffed, wiping his eyes. </p><p>“You can’t <em> keep </em> it, obviously,” <em> Yes I can, </em>Martin didn’t interject, “but if it’s only for a bit… just to sort this out…” </p><p>“Just to sort this out,” Martin lied, “and then I’ll give it back- I promise.”</p><p>Emerson smiled a tad sadly. “You seem like a good man, Mister Blackwood. If you can manage to keep from being consumed…”</p><p>“I think I can,” Martin said, “I mean- I must be able to, right? I have to be strong for them.” His voice softened. “They’re my own- I have to protect them.”</p><p>“And you might well be able to,” Emerson said, and Martin knew he had it. </p><p>Emery Morris went back to retrieve the Leitner from another room and Martin straightened himself out, carefully putting his appearance to rights. Glancing at the mirror, he frowned at the cowlick trying to fly away from the rest of his bangs and at his own reflection smiling back at him. He’d never thought himself to have such a toothy smile, but… well. He didn’t have time to think on that.</p><p>His host hesitated before handing him the book and Martin said, “I promise, I’ll bring this back- and I can make sure that your brother is taken care of, just in case any effects stop working for you.” He smiled. “It’s the least I can do.”</p><p>(Martin didn’t mention that Emery Morris’ brother had died by the time Martin had researched him last.)</p><p>He successfully retrieved the book. Job well done.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>we're SO sorry for the delay in uploading this chapter! we hope it was worth it &lt;3</p><p>we've updated all our fics to a monthly release schedule, so see you again in about a month! and thanks to everyone who comments ;; y'all make our day</p><p>as always, our tumblr's @sam-roulette! come yell at/with us!</p>
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